


My Heart Will Be Blessed

by ClaroQueQuiza



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Author Knows Nothing About Music, F/F, F/M, M/M, Music, Platonic Soulmates, Please Forgive me, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Why Did I Decide to Try to Describe Music with Writing, You Can't Hear Music Until You Meet Your Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9690488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaroQueQuiza/pseuds/ClaroQueQuiza
Summary: Jesse McCree cannot hear music. He hears the sounds, he hears the tones, but he cannot hear the beauty, cannot feel the rhythm.He has not met his soulmate yet.





	1. My Heart Wants to Beat

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm going to try something new with the Spanish that I write in this fic--NOT THE LYRICS, just the stuff I write. Hover your mouse cursor over the Spanish and an English translation should appear. If not, or if you're on a mobile device, a translation will be at the bottom. Thank you for reading!

There was little warning. McCree had been minding his own business, heading back to his quarters when he found himself entrapped.

 

It had already been a tiring day, and the last thing he needed was the bundle of green energy that latched onto him and dragged him away just as he had reached out to key in his passcode. He had been making a beeline to his bed after spending hours in Winston’s lab poring over proposed strategies and then hours more in the simulation rooms.

 

There was very little in the world that could resist the whirlwind that was Lúcio Correia dos Santos, though.

 

McCree had been one of the first to respond to the Recall, arriving shortly after Lena and Reinhardt (and a welcoming party made up of only three people should not have left his shoulders and ribs so bruised, but that was life in Overwatch 2.0, apparently). Such a small band of fighters meant that every new addition radically altered the group dynamic, even if Torbjörn and Angela were formerly Overwatch. When the Brazilian pop sensation showed up out of the blue, tipped off to their little venture by Tracer and Winston’s flashy recovery of the Doomfist gauntlet, the shock had given way to cautious relief at finally having a backup for their most important team member--but that had required yet more training and strategizing to integrate the brand-new member.

 

And after all that, beginning tomorrow, they would most likely have to throw most everything out the window anyway, so there was little satisfaction to be had out of the Recall just yet, besides a warm if not quite comfortable bed under the 24/7 guard of a formidable AI. A bed that was currently front-and-center in his mind, but Lúcio was doing his damnedest to recenter that attention on himself.

 

“C’mon, you gotta hear this!” he beamed, practically bouncing as he tugged on McCree’s metal fingers. “I’ve been recording samples of the sims, and I just finished the first Overwatch remix! Gotta get the original team’s vibe down before the new recruits show up, y’know?” McCree didn’t know, but Lúcio didn’t seem to expect a reply as he kicked open the door of his “studio”, formerly a barracks, and pulled him into the nest of piled-high speakers and electronics interwoven with bright multicolored cables that took up most of the space. “Sit tight for a sec, I gotta warm these babies up again.” He promptly disappeared from sight among the mountainous sound equipment, but rustling cables and clicking buttons produced rather ominous hums and crackles from the speakers. McCree backed up a little, wondering briefly if he should make a run for it while he could.

 

Lúcio suddenly popped back into view, a green-lit soundboard in hand. “Aiight, here we go!” The last excited word was swallowed up in a great swell of noise, and it was hard to tell what was vibrating more: the floor or McCree’s chest. Lúcio began to hammer away at the soundboard, each touch of a button producing a short burst of Lena laughing, Reinhardt hollering, and various other noises that McCree could attribute to one teammate or another intermixed with various musical instruments.

 

McCree smiled graciously in answer to Lúcio questioning grin, watching as the young DJ swayed in time with what McCree supposed was a beat.

 

He sighed, settling in as he waited for it to end, a familiar weight in his chest. Lúcio, on the other hand, was quickly losing himself to his own creation, his eyes closing as he shuffled back and forth and pumping his fist in the air.

 

McCree stood motionless. He might as well have been listening to leaves fluttering in the trees or pebbles tumbling down a ravine. All he could hear was sound following sound and tone following tone: no pattern, no harmony.

 

No art, no feeling.

 

No music.

 

Just noise.

 

He felt his smile become rather fixed as his mind wandered, wondering just who Lúcio thought was his soulmate, since he so clearly expected him to be able to hear music. Maybe he’d assumed from his warm and familiar conversations with Angela. Maybe someone had told him about his and Fareeha’s close friendship.

 

Maybe someone who had met their soulmate so early in life just couldn’t imagine how anyone could go so long without meeting their own.

 

McCree slipped so far into his own thoughts that he almost missed the end of the noise, snapping back into reality just in time to reanimate his expression when Lúcio came out of his fugue state, opening his eyes and grinning.

 

He hoped his double thumbs up and smooth compliments were convincing. Lúcio seemed pleased enough as he talked excitedly about using this as a foundation for future remixes, to keep a sort of audio diary of the reborn Overwatch’s evolution. McCree listened for what he figured was a polite amount of time before he signalled with a jaw-cracking yawn that he really, _really_ wanted to sleep. Lúcio stopped short and, laughing, waved him off as he turned back to his equipment.

 

As McCree collapsed into bed at last, he pondered a little about how best to let the poor kid know that he was wasting his no-doubt immense talent on him. It was hard to feel too much resentment when Lúcio was so genuinely gracious and friendly and only meant for his music to reflect that, but six years on the run had highlighted just how alone McCree was, a feeling that was stubbornly tailing him like a shadow even now when he was once more surrounded by friends.

 

He shook his head impatiently and tried to lose himself in sleep, but that took a good long while. His mind kept busily hashing and rehashing the possible strategies to incorporate so many new teammates whose talents were completely unknown.

 

Or completely unwelcome.

 

Sleep came, eventually.

 

The next morning started slowly. McCree set his alarm for once in order to enjoy one last calm(er) breakfast before the new arrivals turned everything on its head. He found Angela and Reinhardt already hard at work in the kitchen, preparing a large spread of German and Swiss breakfast pastries with marmalade, honey, and thick sausages on the side. The others drifted in one by one with Winston bringing up the rear, yawning after a late night in the lab.

 

“As well as some last minute cleaning,” he announced, peering around the table as he spread marmalade across his brötchen. “They’ll be arriving at 1100. I’d like everyone to be there, to help get introductions out of the way and so everyone knows who belongs here and who doesn’t before you three head to Dorado tomorrow.”

 

“Vishkar doesn’t belong here,” muttered Lúcio, just loud enough for McCree and Reinhardt to hear on either side of him. Reinhardt patted his shoulder, knocking his arm into a jar of honey. McCree merely nodded, thinking of the other recruit that nearly everyone had reservations about, but saying nothing.

 

At least Genji and Fareeha would be back.

 

Everyone seemed content to let the breakfast drag on, so when they were all done it was time for everyone to descend to the hanger to wait for the transport to arrive. Winston immediately roped Reinhardt and McCree into unloading some supplies off a pallet that had been forgotten in the preparations for the resurrected Overwatch’s first expansion. The rest milled about, talking amongst themselves before watching the sky as 1100 approached.

 

McCree broke off from carrying boxes of ammunition about five minutes ‘til, fanning himself with his hat as he tried to make himself a bit more presentable. He had shucked off his serape long ago, and he grimaced at the sweat collecting around the armpits of his flannel shirt, but there was nothing more to do but comb his fingers through his hair and beard and hope the deodorant was working, since the antiperspirant wasn’t.

 

The transport was a little late. It darted into view from behind the Rock like an airborne silverfish before arcing to hover and land in front of the hanger. McCree caught a glimpse of green and white through one of the windows, and he joined the rest of the group in waving, Reinhardt letting out booming laughter to boot.

 

The transport’s door swung open and the stairs unfolded. A bright blue blur zoomed out as soon as they touched the ground, and Lena was suddenly standing next to Winston, waving her arms as Mei followed her with equal enthusiasm if not equal speed. The white fur of her parka was dazzling in the summer Gibraltar sun as she pointed at the hulking pink-haired woman that followed close behind with a friendly, if bold smile.

 

Next came a slim, tall woman with an austere expression, black hair braided into a thick plait, and dressed to the nines in flowing blue-and-white, with a bone-white prosthetic arm that hurt to look at in the sunlight. She stopped for a split second at the sight of the welcoming party, eyes scanning them shrewdly before she continued with graceful, haughty movements towards Winston, who was already introducing Mei and the giant woman to Reinhardt.

 

Next came a slender, short woman, dressed in a bright pink t-shirt and designer jeans. She blew an enormous bubble with her gum as she regarded the welcoming committee, letting it pop loudly before she descended with a confident bouncy step, her long brown hair falling every which way. Reinhardt, stars in his eyes, came forward to meet her, taking out his cellphone excitedly. McCree shook his head. Leave it to Reinhardt to be the first to ask for a selfie with the famous Hana Song.

 

McCree whooped when Fareeha appeared in the doorway, grinning wide, muscular arms bare in a military tanktop. She threw a duffel bag to the ground as she ran forward to embrace him, shrieking as he feigned great difficulty in picking her up and swinging her around.

 

“Oof! My back!” he yelped as he set her down again. “That’s it, I’m retirin’. From now on, you pick _me_ up and twirl me around--Lord knows I’ve earned it.”

 

“For what?” she accused laughingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve _done_ something! I thought you got by on Southern Charm alone?”

 

“Charm and good looks,” he reminded her, winking roguishly.

 

She shoved him away in response, rolling her eyes. “You look good, Jesse. How have you been, truly?”

 

He shrugged as he bent to pick up her duffel bag. “Same as always.”

 

“That bad, huh? Well, it’s about time they got you back out of that snakehole.”

 

“Yeah, out of the rattlesnake nest and into a pit of vipers, more like,” he retorted, sounding a bit more serious than he meant, but it was mostly because a silvery glint had drawn his eye to the last two figures disembarking from the transport.

 

Genji looked well, or as well as McCree could tell from this distance. If nothing else, he looked happier, even with his face covered, thanks to the light silver armor he was sporting. In years past, he had favored much darker coverings, when he cared to favor anything at all.

 

He was walking with a metallic hand resting on his brother’s shoulder. His brother’s clothed shoulder; half of the man’s dark grey shirt was tucked into a somber blue cloth belt. He alone was openly armed, carrying a long, high-performance bow in one hand, a quiver slung over his shoulder, and a small bag in his other hand. McCree took in the artificial lower half of his legs with a raised eyebrow before he turned to Fareeha and muttered, “Y’all get in a fight on the way over? Why’s he got his tit out?”

 

Fareeha shook her head. “Don’t know,” she confessed, glancing at the pair as they stopped in front of Winston and Genji gestured at his brother with his free hand, patting his shoulder at the same time. “No one had the courage to ask him. He has a pretty unfriendly aura about him. Kinda like Genji before, you know? I was more surprised that we couldn’t get Genji to shut up the whole way over. When did he become so chatty?”

 

“I’ll fill you in later. Genji’ll probably be glad t’tell you himself,” said McCree before he stepped forward and bent down to meet Mei’s outstretched arms.

 

“McCree!” she exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you again!”

 

“Likewise, half-pint,” he replied easily.

 

She bounced excitedly as she waved the giant forward. “This is Zarya! Oh, well--”

 

“Senior Lieutenant Aleksandra Zaryanova, Russian Defense Forces, but, yes, Zarya,” she said with a confident smile and an outstretched hand that looked like it could easily crush his metal hand, much less his flesh one. Her grip turned out to be surprisingly gentle, but she made up for it with a slap to the shoulder that was far too similar to Reinhardt’s in enthusiasm and sheer force. Mei immediately dragged her away, making McCree raise his eyebrow at Fareeha. Before either of them could comment, the Vishkar agent drew near to introduce herself.

 

“Satya Vaswani,” she said primly, extending a fine-boned hand that she withdrew a tad too quickly after shaking. She looked McCree over with a carefully schooled expression, her midnight dark eyes sharpening a little before she asked, “What is your function in Overwatch?”

 

“Oh, just a humble gunslinger, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat. “Plus a bit o’ munitions and gun training on the side.”

 

She nodded stiffly. “I look forward to making this cooperative venture between Vishkar and Overwatch a success.”

 

McCree nodded back amiably as she turned away. He caught Fareeha’s eye and made a couple robotic movements with his arms. Fareeha surprised him, however, with a slight frown and what may have been the beginnings of a blush. His eyes widened. “Don’ tell me--” he began, but she cut him off by taking half a step past him.

 

“Genji, come say hello to Jess!” she called, unnecessarily loud, since Genji was only a couple of meters away.

 

“Why?” retorted Genji, cocking his head to the side. “I have a reputation to preserve these days.”

 

“Everyone’s a critic and a comedian,” McCree grumbled, but he grinned wide to disguise his rising tension as Genji almost tugged his brother forward to meet them.

 

He was a handsome snake in the grass, McCree was generous enough to give him that. His high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, manicured beard that accented his jawline, and the flatout gorgeous tattoo that enveloped his entire bare left arm wasn’t about to distract him, though. No, it just meant it would be that much easier to keep a close eye on the cagey bastard, who already looked about 99% done with everything as Genji gestured at McCree and said, “Jesse McCree, my brother, Hanzo. McCree is the sharpshooter I spoke of, Hanzo, the one who outmatches you in speed.”

 

McCree immediately stiffened, but Hanzo reacted more graciously than he expected. He already looked like he was fighting not to scowl, his back was ramrod straight, and his shoulders were tense, as though he longed to shrug off Genji’s hand, but his frown didn’t deepen as he bobbed his head at McCree, and his gaze, while guarded, was steady.

 

“Greetings,” he murmured in a voice roughened with disuse.

 

“McCree and Miss Amari have been with Overwatch for years,” Genji said.

 

Fareeha rolled her eyes. “Some of us more unofficially than others.”

 

“They’ll be the ones to ask for the best stories about the old days,” Genji continued smoothly. “Careful, though--once you get McCree talking, he’ll keep going forever.”

 

Under most circumstances, McCree would have jumped at the obvious invitation to start gabbing, but only most. At that moment, he merely nodded at Hanzo. “Pleasure.”

 

The silence was all the louder for Genji’s comment on McCree’s usual talkativeness.

 

Fareeha rescued them. “You’ll want to see the target ranges, I’m sure. Jesse and I can show you where they are, if you’d like.”

 

“That’s a good idea!” said Genji, already steering Hanzo towards the interior of the hanger. “Maybe we could even get a little contest going between you and McCree.”

 

McCree cleared his throat. “Beggin’ y’all’s pardon, but I’ll have t’take a raincheck on that. Gotta lot t’do before Dorado tomorrow morning. Some other time.”

 

Genji’s green visor locked on his face for a moment before Fareeha patted McCree on the shoulder, tugged her bag out of his hand, and strode forward. “Yes, some other time,” she said peaceably. “Come on, Genji, Hanzo. It’ll be the first time I’ve used the target range without my mother sneaking me in.”

 

The trio walked away. McCree watched them disappear inside the base, Genji’s hand never leaving Hanzo’s shoulder, accompanied by the other recruits who were being escorted by various team members, Angela with Mei and Zarya, Torbjörn with Vaswani. He sniffed before he wandered to the back of the transport, where Reinhardt, Hana Song, Lúcio, and Winston were opening up the cargo bay. At first he assumed that Reinhardt’s fanboying ways had taken her hostage, but as he approached he heard her say, “-can’t wait to start drills! Gotta be ready for anything, anytime.”

 

“Of course, Miss Song,” replied Winston, looking a tad overwhelmed.

 

“Hana, or D. Va, whichever,” she said offhandedly as she rushed forward as soon as the cargo doors were open. “There’s my MEKA baby! Who wants to get in the range and start tearing things up? Is it you? Is it you?” And she disappeared inside before the ramp had finished extending, followed closely by Reinhardt.

 

Winston locked rather despairing eyes with McCree, who merely raised his eyebrows before shaking his head and altering course to grab the forklift. A very interesting troupe of characters had just been unleashed on the base, very interesting indeed.

 

McCree was eventually introduced to Hana, but it took a while, and it was a while longer before they had her MEKA situated to her satisfaction. He was only glad that Lúcio had already heard of and volunteered to help her with setting up her streaming equipment; by the sound of things, she was equally if not even more exacting when it came to the multitude of gaming systems and filming equipment that she, Lúcio, and Reinhardt were soon carrying into the base. They already seemed to be well on the way to being good friends, with a speed and lack of restraint that left McCree breathless.

 

His earlier polite refusal turned out to be entirely truthful as the day went on. He had hardly re-entered the base when Winston hunted him and Angela down to go over the mission to Dorado, which was a small fact-finding mission to investigate the resurgence of Los Muertos. Lena would also be going but she and Winston were swapping the role of chief caretaker on base; while he was speaking with them, she was helping the new recruits settle in, as well as helping Athena keep a subtle eye on them.

 

To save time, the three of them prepped the transport as they talked, refueling and resupplying it as they went over the latest intelligence reports that Athena had obtained, most of which centered around a mysterious vigilante who had recently been challenging and disrupting Los Muertos in the heart of their territory.

 

The sun was low in the sky by the time they wrapped everything up. Despite the relatively early hour, McCree couldn’t keep himself from yawning every few minutes as the hard labor of the day coupled with the previous restless night. Winston headed for the kitchen to help with the large dinner Torbjörn and Lena were preparing. Angela and McCree followed at a more sedate pace, Angela observing McCree.

 

“You are still having trouble sleeping?”

 

“I got a schedule is all, Ang. One day on, one day off, repeat. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”

 

She hummed a little. “You should turn in early. It will help make up the deficit.”

 

“Y’know, I think I will. Dunno if I have it in me t’be too sociable tonight, t’tell you the truth. I got some grub in my room, so don’ worry about little ol’ me.”

 

And if his reluctance to attend dinner was aided by Lúcio’s plans to give a welcoming mini-concert, Angela did not need to know. She would probably guess as soon as he powered up the speakers. She sympathized with his plight, but it had been a long time since she met her soulmate, a senior medical researcher she met a couple of years after joining Overwatch--like Lúcio and Genji, her soulmate had been her mentor--and she had had music in her life for nearly twenty years now.

 

McCree did not feel like listening to noise tonight, so he and Angela parted at the door of his quarters, and he was soon digging into some leftover chili he had stashed in the minifridge he had pilfered from one of the breakrooms. When his stomach was comfortably full, he laid himself down, meaning to relax with a book before turning in, but he was asleep before he could even pull up his library on the tablet.

 

That night, he had a series of nightmares; some were stomach-churning, nightmarish reminders of the past, others were simply states of semi-consciousness that he spent watching the minutes tick by on the dim bedside clock on his dresser--at least, until they ticked over from 2:59 to 2:60 or some other strange clue made him realize he was dreaming and he jerked awake. Each time he sighed and stretched out the muscles that had wound up tighter than bowstrings and settled back to try to catch at least a little more sleep.

 

In some ways, he felt more exhausted the next morning than when he simply stared at the ceiling all night. His morning shower did more to relax him than the night of “sleep” had.

 

Breakfast was a much simpler and hurried affair with only Lena and Angela. They did receive a bit of a surprise after they had finished, washed up, and were on their way out of the common room to pick up the last of their equipment. Hanzo emerged from the shadows of the hallway, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday but damp with exertion.

 

“Heya, Hanzo!” Lena said as she darted forward in a flash to clap a hand on his shoulder. Hanzo took a small step back, and McCree’s hackles raised when he saw how close the other man came to physically striking her out of startlement. Fortunately, Lena saw it, too, and she jumped back with a carefree laugh. “Sorry, mate, I forget you’re not used to that yet. Get a nice early start to the day?” Hanzo gave a single nod. “Grand! Sorry to run out on you so quickly, but just remember that Rein knows the shops round here almost as well as I do. He’ll keep those high street snobs from gouging you too much before I get back. See you soon!” And she quite literally disappeared, although a faint shimmer that hung in the air for a few seconds gave a sense of where she had gone.

 

Angela and McCree gave much more sedate greetings as they passed by, which Hanzo seemed almost grateful to receive after Hurricane Lena, although his eyes lingered and an eyebrow twitched on McCree for a moment too long. McCree suppressed a snort. He was in his full gear, serape, chaps, and all. Angela gave him an amused look before they parted to grab the last of their gear.

 

McCree absently hummed a little as he walked down the hallway, lost in thought, going over his packing list in his mind before he refocused on Lúcio coming the other direction.

 

Lúcio gave a little wave, far more sedate than usual. McCree’s brow crinkled in concern. “You alright there, Froggy? Little less bouncy than usual.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” said Lúcio, nervousness apparent. “Well, it’s just--me and Angela were talking last night and she told me. About the, y’know--”

 

McCree nodded in understanding with a small smile. “Ah. I was hopin’ she might.”

 

“Sorry,” blurted Lúcio, a small blush appearing on his cheeks. “I really shouldn’t just assume stuff like that. It’s just that the music was healing you just fine, so I thought you were, you know, _hearing_ it, too.”

 

McCree gave a short laugh. “Naw, I understand, don’ think nothin’ of it, Lúcio. It’s just one of those things. I was actually wonderin’ earlier who you thought my soulmate was?”

 

Lúcio looked down. “I dunno,” he muttered. “I knew Angela wasn’t, or Lena. I just figured that you--I mean, that by now--ugh, damn it, McCree! You’re not helping me be cool here.”

 

McCree laughed heartily at the attempt to lighten the mood, which visibly relaxed Lúcio. “I’m not one t’meddle, especially when someone’s diggin’ themselves into a second Carlsbad,” he teased. “Funnier that way.”

 

“Funny for you, maybe,” he retorted, shoving at him. McCree staggered away, rubbing his arm. “Alright, then, sorry again. I’ll try not to bug ya too much with more demos.”

 

“I’ve heard much worse, and that’s a fact,” replied McCree with a wave of his hand. “Hell of a lot better than that godawful noise they kept playin’ over and over back in high school. That was half the reason I dropped out, t’be honest.”

 

“I bet,” laughed Lúcio as he continued on his way. “Thanks, man. Good luck!”

 

“Thanks, partner!” McCree didn’t meet anyone else on the way to his quarters and then on to the hanger, his duffel slung awkwardly over one shoulder, pinching his serape something fierce. Lena and Angela were waiting for him, and they piled in and got on their way without too much trouble. It was a twelve-hour flight, so while Lena flew the transport, for practice if nothing else, and Angela began to go over the medical data she’d pried out of the new recruits the day before, McCree spread out across a few seats and settled down to try to make up for the night before.

 

Maybe it was the vibration of the transport or the white noise of the engines, but he managed to get a good few hours’ of sleep. He woke feeling much more alert and in a much better mood to chat with Angela and Lena the rest of the way, mostly discussing, comparing, and laughing over each other’s impressions of their new teammates. Both Lena and Angela’s opinions lined up with his own, more or less, though Lena had a slightly more friendly impression of Genji’s brother than the other two.

 

“You know that what he was carrying was his luggage? All of it?” She shook her head as she tapped and frowned at a gauge, McCree and Angela lounging behind her in the cockpit, careful not to touch anything. ¨Poor bastard either left everything behind or he's been living lean, though he's obviously been eating well. Did you see his biceps? Thicker around than my legs, woulda made me feel like a twig if he weren’t sitting next to Ms. Olympia halfway from Siberia to Utopaea. Moved after that and gave her the cold shoulder, though, when she started grousing about Genji. You thought he had resting bitch face before, _whooooo_ …”

 

“What did Zarya say about Genji?” asked Angela concernedly.

 

“Something about whether they could trust him not to go rogue and hijack the transport. I think she thought he was an Omnic, and she’s not too keen on them.”

 

“And what did Hanzo have t’say t’ _that?_ ” McCree couldn’t keep a bit of bite out of his voice. Angela’s pursed lips only egged him on. “Can’ imagine he was too comfortable.”

 

Lena glanced back at him, brown eyes wide. “I don’t mind telling you I was ready to break up a fight.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Never saw anyone look like that who wasn’t about to stick someone,” Lena said as she tried to mold her face with her hands into an approximation, using her fingers to tug her inner eyebrows and the corners of her lips further down they could go on their own. “Scariest thing I’ve seen since Widowmaker, though she’s still got him beat. Then you know what he says? He says, ‘If you look at us and think him the more likely to betray you, then your prejudice blinds you to true danger.’ And then he got up and stalked off. Shoulda seen the look on _her_ face.” She rearranged her facial features, squeezing her cheeks and mouth into a little ‘o’.

 

McCree gave a little shake of his head. “Well, he’s honest, I’ll give him that.”

 

Both Angela and Lena shot him a look.

 

“McCree--” began Angela.

 

“At least he defended Genji, even if it was in the creepiest way possible,” interjected Lena.

 

“You call that defendin’ him?”

 

“Yeah, I do, and I call it owning up to what he did, even if Zarya didn’t understand what he was talking about. The guy’s not cutting himself any slack, that’s for sure.”

 

“And he shouldn’, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

 

“I never said he should, love, or that we should either, until he’s earned it. But I think we can give him a chance to earn it, since Genji is.”

 

“I know, I know,” McCree huffed, “I been over this with Genji. I’ll give him a chance, but I’m gonna keep an eye on him, too.”

 

Angela nodded. “As will we all. But they are getting off to a good start. They spent nearly the entire day together yesterday, which is more than I expected from either of them. We should respect that, so long as it’s clear both of them are committed to reconciling peacefully.”

 

“Yep. Anyway, what about Song? Can’ imagine she was too happy being cooped up for so long. Girl’s a firecracker,” McCree said in a baldfaced attempt to change the subject. Lena seemed eager to comply.

 

“Oh, you’re going to like her a lot, Jess. She reminds me a lot of you, and she’s already been serving nearly as long  as you had with Blackwatch at her age.”

 

“Poor thing,” he murmured, almost too low to be heard.

 

The conversation ebbed and flowed for the rest of the journey, until Lena set them down in an abandoned airfield tucked into a small valley in the mountains that rose above Dorado. It was half-reclaimed by the tropical flora and cast into shadow by the setting sun. McCree and Angela grimaced at the humidity and heat that poured into the transport when they disembarked, while Lena complained mostly about the bugs as she took a few seconds to check the perimeter. They made their way from the airfield into the outskirts of Dorado where a self-guided car was waiting for them in a nondescript residential neighborhood. They piled in and headed for the safehouse.

 

They had timed their mission to coincide with the Fiesta de San Antonio de Padua, one of the biggest festivals in the city, second only to the Festival of Light. Even this far from the city center the streets were festooned with multicolored light strips, ribbons, and images and statuettes of Saint Anthony. As the sun set and twilight fell, groups of people, couples walking hand-in-hand, families with children and teenagers, and crowds of friends talking excitedly with each other began to fill the streets as they headed for the city center. A few of the girls and women stood out, wearing delicately flowing white dresses with lace-like material on the hem, black aprons stitched with beautifully detailed flowers tied around their waists, and red scarves draped around their arms. Their male counterparts were dressed more simply in white shirts and pants, although a few went all-out with the red bandanas tied around their necks, patterned with holographic sequins or flowers or geometric patterns not unlike McCree’s serape.

 

They wound their way slowly through the crowd before they finally made it through to the safehouse, a small apartment sandwiched between more ample houses on either side situated on a deserted street. They checked it and the immediate surroundings thoroughly before setting up Athena’s security drones and unloading their gear. Once done, they met in the living room and decided to begin gathering intelligence immediately since the time change and the rest during the trip left all of them wired. They adapted a reconnaissance protocol for the city’s central district where most of the festival’s celebrations were being held, Angela and Lena changed into more casual clothing, hiding their weapons and comms in various pockets while McCree waited outside smoking, before they all headed out, splitting up before joining the crowds of people still choking the streets.

 

It was hard not to get swept up in the excitement, especially that of the little children calling out to each other and begging their parents for money to buy sweets and play games at the stands that began to appear on each side of the narrow streets. The older teenagers and adults were hardly less excited, and McCree was smiling almost the entire long walk as he listened to the chatter of the crowd around him, even as he began to be jostled by the increasingly tightly packed mass of people around him as they tried to get closer to the center of the festivities close to the city’s waterfront.

 

Everybody thinned out a bit as the stream of people swept him into one of the small plazas that dotted the city, a monument to the fallen of the Omnic Crisis occupying its center and brightly lit with light strips strung from the surrounding buildings. A good-sized band was gathered on one side, preparing guitars, trumpets, trombones, and violins while a couple of singers spoke with the people in the front row of the crowd.

 

McCree paid them no more attention than he did to everyone else, looking for people who acted a little too stiffly, people with the pale, fluorescent tattoos that would be barely visible in the artificial lighting, or anyone who merely stood out from the general partying populace. He did not truly notice when the singers stepped back amongst their bandmates and one of them, stretching his arms out wide, called out over the noise of the crowd, "¡Buenas noches a todos! Somos los Nuevos Leones Neoleoneses, y esta noche vamos a empezar con algo viejo y tradicional pero lindo. Damas, caballeros, y ómnicos, _¿Por Qué Me Haces Llorar?_ "

 

McCree froze.

 

His head whipped around.

 

He stumbled, his hand flying out to steady himself against a nearby lamppost.

 

What--?

 

Were those--?

 

Was that--

 

The warbling, swaying notes washed over him and pulled him back and forth like water sloshing in a small tub, smooth and sharp like bourbon, low and droning before hiking up the pitch into something soft yet piercing.

 

Violins. They were violins, but, no, how could that be? His head swam, unable to process the sounds drifting through the warm, humid air like ribbons held aloft by a breeze. Violins were nothing but coarse strands of metal with horsehair scratching across them, but now--

 

Metal and horsehair were transforming into something sweet as guavas and strawberries, soft as silk, clear as a sudden epiphany.

 

He focused on the band as the singer stepped forward, opened his mouth, and spoke with more clarity, with more tender feeling, than he had ever heard in any human voice.

 

 _¿Para qué,_ he said, looking around, _me haces llorar? ¿Que no ves como te quiero? Y ¿para qué me haces sufrir?_ _¿Que no ves que más no puedo?_

 

It was like talking to a loved one about something trivial and suddenly realizing they were holding back tears.

 

_Yo nunca, nunca había llorado, y menos de dolor. Y nunca, nunca había tomado, y menos por un amor._

 

It was like not looking where you were going and suddenly finding nothing but air under your feet as you fell forward.

 

_¿Por qué me haces llorar? Y ¿te burlas de mi, si sabes tú muy bien que yo no sé sufrir?_

 

It was like the last turn on the road to a destination you had never seen before, and it’s more wonderful and grand than you ever thought it could be.

 

He was transfixed, almost out of his mind with awe as sound and tone interwove with every word, as if the singer was dancing in the field of his heart, sowing seeds of longing and regret and betrayal.

 

Was he supposed to feel so close to someone he had never met before in his life? Was he supposed to feel what they were feeling when he could barely see their face? It was intimate to the point of making him flush with embarrassment. With a new acquaintance, it took days or weeks to craft and nurture such intimacy. With an actor on stage or on screen, it took five, ten, fifteen or more minutes to work into their audience’s hearts.

 

Was anyone really supposed to be able to do the same in thirty seconds, with a couple dozen notes and ten sentences?

 

Was this--

 

A cool hand touched his wrist. He gasped and turned to come face to face with a careworn face framed with white hair, lined with both years and concern.

 

“¿Qué te pasa, hijo? ¿Te encuentras bien?” she asked, studying his face with eyes undimmed by time.

 

“Eh, em, estoy--no he--” he stuttered. At a loss, he gestured at the band across the plaza. “Es esa--¿es esa la--?”

 

She glanced at the band and back to him. Understanding blossomed in her eyes, and, slowly, she smiled, as tears welled in her eyes. She squeezed his wrist, her fingers trembling. “¿La música? Así es, mijo, así es. Felicidades.”

 

“¿Felicidades? Pero yo no he--” His eyes widened as realization hit home. His soulmate. He had met his soulmate.

 

His brain kicked into overdrive, going over every fairy tale and anecdote he had heard in his life. You were supposed to know immediately. You were supposed to hear music in the silence, in your heartbeat, as soon as you saw their eyes.

 

He looked left and right, scanning the crowd, searching for a familiar face, for anyone who had met his gaze. “¿Cuándo? ¿Quién? Nadie aquí--¿no debe ser como un rayo? Nadie--”

 

“Tranquilo, jovencito, tranquilo,” she said soothingly, raising a hand to cup his cheek and turn his face to meet her dark green eyes once more. “Ésto no es un cuento de hadas. Muchos miran a su alma gemela a los ojos sin conocerla. La mayoría tenemos que pensar en la última vez que oímos la música sin escucharla. ¿Cuándo oíste tal ruido?”

 

McCree blinked, slowly. “Ayer.”

 

She smiled triumphantly. “¡Que suerte! ¡Acabas de verla!”

 

“No,” he said, drawing back. “Conocí a bastante gente ayer, y a ellos no les caí bien, y a mí nadie me cayó bien. No así. Debe ser alguien aquí, en Dorado.”

 

“Si tú lo dices, pero no seas terco,” she replied. “El alma gemela no cae en su lugar ya hecho. Acuérdate bien. Pero, al fin y al cabo, felicidades. Seguro que has esperado mucho. Felicidades, hijo. ¡Di hola a tu alma por mi parte!”

 

She patted his cheek softly and then let go of his wrist and face, disappearing into the crowd as the last few notes spun off into the air and disappeared with her.

 

The crowd burst into applause as the bandmembers bowed and smiled and called out their thanks.

 

McCree, his mind numb, raised his hands and applauded his first song.

 

His earpiece suddenly exploded with noise. Both Tracer and Angela were talking over each other, but McCree heard very little as the band’s two violinists stepped forward, and began a duet. McCree listened, spellbound, before his teammates’ words finally broke through.

 

“McCree? McCree, do you copy? Over!”

 

He hesitantly tapped the earpiece, reluctant to listen to anything that wasn’t music. “McCree here,” he whispered.

 

A burst of static. “Thank heaven, I thought they had swept you up, too! Listen, Tracer has gone back for the vehicle, but I need you here ASAP. I found him, the vigilante, Soldier: 76. It looks like he was ambushed. He needs an immediate evac, back to the base.”

 

McCree was already moving. Nothing but a life-or-death situation could have pulled him away and gotten him back into Overwatch mode.

 

“Back t’base? What are you talkin’ about?”

 

“McCree--” His eyes narrowed at Angela’s tone, tight, almost frightened. She heaved a breath over the comm, and muttered, “You will understand when you arrive.”

 

McCree shook his head, wondering what in hell that was supposed to mean, but he would find out shortly. “ETA is three minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hmm, a soulmate AU, with music. What a great idea for a short oneshot." LIES, LIES AND DECEPTION
> 
> Apparently I can't be writing less than two stories at a time, plus no one talked me out of this, so here we go. I'm going to try to keep this short, maybe three chapters tops, but I can't edit for shit so we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> Also, I can't play any instruments, so, y'know. I'll do my best.
> 
> The song is [¿Por Qué Me Haces Llorar?](https://youtu.be/f8U4L49QPyE) by Juan Gabriel, who is amazing to listen to and to WATCH, oh my goodness, he is flatout tossing wine on people in the front rows, it's great.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> ¡Buenas noches a todos! Somos los Nuevos Leones Neoleoneses, y esta noche vamos a empezar con algo viejo y tradicional pero lindo. Damas, caballeros, y ómnicos, "¿Por Qué Me Haces Llorar?"  
> Good evening, everyone! We are the Nuevos Leones Neoleoneses, and tonight we are going to begin with something old and traditional but beautiful. Ladies, gentlemen, and Omnics, "¿Por Qué Me Haces Llorar?" 
> 
> ¿Qué te pasa, hijo? ¿Te encuentras bien?  
> What’s wrong, kid? Are you alright?
> 
> Eh, em, estoy--no he--  
> Uh, um, I--I don’t--
> 
> Es esa--¿es esa la--?  
> Is that--is that--?
> 
> ¿La música? Así es, mijo, así es. Felicidades.  
> Music? Yes, yes it is. Congratulations.
> 
> ¿Felicidades? Pero yo no he--  
> Congratulations? But I haven’t-- 
> 
> ¿Cuándo? ¿Quién? Nadie aquí--¿no debe ser como un rayo? Nadie--  
> When? Who? No one here--isn’t it supposed to be like lightning? No one--
> 
> Tranquilo, jovencito, tranquilo.  
> Calm down, young man, calm down.
> 
> Ésto no es un cuento de hadas. Muchos miran a su alma gemela a los ojos sin conocerla. La mayoría tenemos que pensar en la última vez que oímos la música sin escucharla. ¿Cuándo oíste tal ruido?  
> This is no fairytale. Many look their soulmate in the eye without realizing it. Most of us have to think back to the last time we heard music without hearing music. When was it last noise?
> 
> Ayer.  
> Yesterday
> 
> ¡Que suerte! ¡Acabas de verla!  
> How lucky, you just saw them!
> 
> Conocí a bastante gente ayer, y a ellos no les caí bien, y a mí nadie me cayó bien. No así. Debe ser alguien aquí, en Dorado.  
> I met lots of people yesterday, and they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them. Not like that. It has to be someone here, in Dorado.
> 
> Si tú lo dices, pero no seas terco. El alma gemela no cae en su lugar ya hecho. Acuérdate bien. Pero, al fin y al cabo, enhorabuena. Seguro que has esperado mucho. Enhorabuena, hijo. ¡Di hola a tu alma por mi parte!  
> If you say so, but don’t be obstinate. A soulmate doesn’t slot into place pre-made. Remember that, kid. But, in the end, congratulations. You’ve waited long enough. Congratulations, kid. Say hello to them for me!


	2. My Heart Wants to Sigh

The return of Jack Morrison from the dead prompted chaos in the Watchpoint for three days straight.

 

It was hard to tell what the general mood of the place was; Angela was tightlipped and whitefaced from the moment McCree found her in a dim and dirty alley trying to keep the barely conscious man from bleeding out, and she didn’t look much better in the days that followed. Lena was a ball of nervous energy, alternating between disbelief, betrayal, and joy--she had spent the trip flitting back and forth from the cockpit to the transport’s medical alcove just to prove to herself that, yes, the Strike Commander was alive, yes, he had been gallivanting around as a nameless vigilante for who knows how long, and, yes, he was  _ right here what has he been doing this whole time where was he when we needed him oh I’m so glad he’s back the look on Winston’s face when he sees I don’t know who’s going to kill him first Reinhardt or Torbjörn what was he  _ doing  _ this whole time??? _

 

The rest of the old guard seemed to cluster around Angela and Lena’s reactions. Reinhardt had gone especially quiet, and McCree could almost pity the old bastard of a supersoldier when he finally regained consciousness and found Mount Wilhelm standing over him. What did one say to the subject of their most heartfelt eulogy? “Oh, never mind?”

 

The new guard seemed confused and cautious, from what he was told. They all knew who Jack Morrison was, of course, but none of them had ever worked with the man, and now their newbie status kept them from knowing what could and could not be asked and said about the situation. Fareeha, who was arguably both old and new guard, was acting as a bridge between the two groups, when she could be spared from her own turmoil. Jack Morrison had been one of the main influences on her life. When he had gone he had taken most of her world with him, and he had brought none of it back with him.

 

McCree wished he could offer her more support, but he had his own problems. He was sure everyone on the Watchpoint thought he was reacting more or less like Angela and Reinhardt, forcing him to keep to his quarters as he sought to process this new Morrisonful reality. Fareeha, Genji, and even Angela had knocked on his door asking if he was alright, since he was avoiding mealtimes with the group and sneaking food at odd hours before retreating back to solitude.

 

How was he supposed to tell them he was hiding headphones under his blankets every time they came to check on him?

 

The return of one of his life’s most prominent ghosts could not have come at a worse time. He reacted by feverishly working through nearly two centuries of rancheras and boleros, plus a century of soundtracks from his favorite Westerns. He had tried to rewatch his favorite movies to take his mind off things, but the so-called background music was forefront in his mind, and he’d soon switched from his movie library to compilations of soundtracks on the web, leaning back and closing his eyes and simply  _ listening _ for hours at a time. Sounds that had been distracting at best during otherwise emotional or exciting moments now allowed room for nothing else.

 

It was so odd looking back on his memories of music now--they had gained absolutely nothing from this new revelation, this almost obsessive appreciation that had already consumed three days. Everything from the lullabies of his childhood to the crass boomboxes of Deadlock Gorge to the eclectic and wildly clashing (even to his ears) noise that had pervaded the dormitories and safehouses of Blackwatch still held that discordant, artless quality that failed to evoke any kind of reaction.

 

It wasn’t until he went back, in the present, and listened to them as he was now, that what was simply vibrating air became clear notes, what was disparate racket resolved into chords, and what had been kooky constructions of wood and metal and stretched cloth became actual instruments in every sense of the word, wielded by skillful hands to produce something that was leaving indelible marks on his heart, his soul, and his conscious.

 

He refused to believe that he could be listening and processing it all with merely his ears. The tiny holes on each side of his head could not possibly be the only entry point for something that resonated in his chest, gathered in rippling pools in his stomach and head, electrified his muscles, and seeped into his bones. He could not keep still as the music poured into him like water into parched desert soil--his hands and feet itched to tap along with any and all the rhythms and patterns he could find, and he soon found that something as simple as snapping his fingers could produce a kind of music. Soon even his calloused fingertips roughened by years of sun and hot bullet cartridges were red and raw as he clumsily followed the work of masters he had been powerless to appreciate for so long. 

 

That, more than anything, was what prompted him to stand, shower, dress in jeans, flannel shirt, and hat, and sneak out of the Watchpoint on the fourth day. 

 

Below stretched the tiny city-state of Gibraltar, hazy under the heatlines of the blazing sun, as he made his way down the winding road that led from the Watchpoint to the densely packed urban area that lay between the Rock and the sea. He had borrowed one of the Watchpoint’s few remaining land rovers; Athena had been surprisingly cavalier about allowing him to commandeer one. Maybe they had become a popular outlet for the people on base--even he had not failed to note the depressing air that had accompanied his comrades when they came to check up on him.

 

He glanced at his tablet as he made his way into the city. There wasn’t much room to get lost in Gibraltar, but the lack of land meant that many builders had gotten “creative” when it came to squeezing as much rentable space as possible into every square meter. Often a storefront on a single small building would advertise six or seven businesses while failing to mention two or three more on the premises. One had to check if their destination was one of those two or three if they wanted to find what they were looking for.

 

This business, however, was fairly obvious even on the narrow street, large and successful enough to occupy a long, wide, single story building all by itself. McCree parked the land rover and made his way to the main entrance. He hesitated for a moment, but a nervous rub of equally raw thumb and forefinger convinced him to enter. 

 

The store was stuffed to the brim with musical instruments. They were very loosely organized, with percussion spilling over into the woodwinds, which in turn were scattered among the strings, and so on. The air smelled fairly dusty--the reason why became readily apparent as various other customers picked up and tested an instrument with a squeak or a boom or a more capable warbling note; the air was constantly in motion. Any mote could hardly stick a landing before being lifted into the air by the oddly melodious noise. 

 

McCree stood and listened for a few moments before he joined in, picking and lifting instrument after instrument at random, giving some a try, looking others over with a cautious and increasingly overwhelmed eye. Maybe it showed on his face, because soon a little shopkeeper, as short and thin as Lena but with a decidedly reserved, tranquil air, made his way through the din and the mess to greet him.

 

“Good morning, sir,” he said slowly and gravely. “May I be of assistance?”

 

McCree bit his lip for a second, then gave a reluctant grin. “I’m thinkin’ of learnin’ an instrument, but I don’ have any right idea of which would be t’my liking, t’be honest. I thought I’d come down and give some a try is all, really.” 

 

The shopkeeper nodded. “Have you any training before now?” 

 

McCree huffed a short laugh. “None.”

 

“What genres of music do you prefer?”

 

“W-e-e-ell,” said McCree, allowing his eyes to flick upwards as he thought. “Me and my mama are from New Mexico, in the Southwest United States. My papa was born and raised almost due south in Chihuahua before he came lookin’ for her. So I grew up with rancheras and norteño, plus a bunch of country music. I don’ suppose you know much about that kind of music, though.”

 

“You would be surprised,” said the shopkeeper with an upturned nose and disdainful air, “how many tourists come through here expecting mariachi bands on every corner. We try to tell them that Spain is across the border, not Mexico. They usually do not understand the difference, so we indulge them.” He motioned for McCree to follow him as he turned and headed deeper into the store. “I have noted that rancheras often rely on guitars, trumpets, accordions, and violins.” He stopped in front of several stands that held guitars of various sizes and makes, and looked McCree up and down, lingering on his hat. “You may find the guitar to be the most versatile out of the four.” 

 

McCree nodded amiably and pulled the nearest guitar off its stand. He awkwardly positioned it in his arms and strummed the strings a little, feeling the vibrations dissipate. He gave a little smile to himself when he caught his distorted reflection in a nearby polished tuba. If he wasn’t the complete image of a good ol’ southern cowpoke at long last--

 

But he frowned as he plucked at the strings a few more times. A guitar would certainly be an obvious, traditional choice, but somehow it didn’t click with him the way he wanted. Besides, he was wincing a bit as he dragged his abused fingertips across the coarse metal. His callouses didn’t need callouses. He set the guitar down and looked down at the shopkeeper. “You said trumpets, accordions, and violins?”

 

The shopkeeper waved a bony hand. “The violins are right here.” 

 

McCree needed a bit of help to try one. After showing him how to hold the bow, the shopkeeper more or less manhandled him into the correct posture, tucking his head onto the chinrest and positioning his fingers on the neck. McCree chuckled at how awkward he felt, already wondering whether he could stomach an accordion as he raised the bow and dragged it across the strings.

 

_ ¿Para qué-- _

 

McCree froze.

 

After a moment, he tried again, his eyes trained on the point where the string and the bow made contact, watching them blur as the concise, clean note slid off the string like a bird taking wing.

 

He had to blink rapidly as he thought back to the small plaza, aglow with soft yellow light, and a comforting hand on his wrist.

 

The shopkeeper’s own expression had softened when he lowered the bow and violin. “Do you wish to try the others?” he asked gently. 

 

“Naw,” answered McCree quietly.

 

He was glad that Winston had managed to scrounge up funds to pay his Recalled agents. McCree didn’t have much to spend on, but the bill would have been a blow to the savings he had managed to gather while on the run. The shopkeeper went in the back and produced three violins, of varying price and quality, but McCree went with his recommendation of the mid-priced violin. The shopkeeper rattled off something about it being made by a local luthier who was highly skilled but still living, which took the price down considerably, but McCree could only absently nod as he tucked his chin into the chinrest once more and merely listened to the sound of the bow and the string.

 

He allowed the shopkeeper to talk him into an instructional app that he downloaded onto his tablet. It had video demos and a tuner so it seemed to be a good deal. He doubted he’d be able to mosey down into the city for lessons on a regular basis. The shopkeeper gave him a pad of round colored stickers to mark where to place his fingers on the violin’s neck and took him through the basics of care, warning him against sudden changes in humidity and pointing out the polish and bow resin in their respective compartments in the thick, hard violin case that he carefully placed his new acquisition into.

 

He was soon rolling the land rover into the hanger bay of the Watchpoint, but before he took the violin case out from the passenger seat, he climbed out and called out, “Anybody there?” He waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Athena?” 

 

“Yes, Agent McCree?”

 

“Is anyone here in the hanger besides little ol’ me?”

 

“Negative. May I ask why you need to know?”

 

“Aw, well,” he said fumblingly. “I just, I gotta--hey, you can keep a secret, right?”

 

The AI seemed to pause before answering. “Personal data is safeguarded unless it presents a danger to the Watchpoint or its personnel.” 

 

“Thought so,” grinned McCree as he withdrew the violin case from the rover. “Nobody’s been down to the storerooms by the auxiliary labs yet, have they?” 

 

“Negative.” 

 

“Alright! So here’s the secret: I need a practice room for  _ this. _ ” He lifted the case proudly as he turned in place. “D’ya mind if I lay claim to one of them for the purpose?”

 

“Not at all, Agent McCree. Storerooms A through F are available.” 

 

“Thank ye kindly, Athena,” he said as he made his way out of the hanger towards the building that housed the labs reserved for the guest scientific personnel that used to come and go during Overwatch’s first incarnation. “I don’ suppose you still got all your recreational programmin’?”

 

Athena chuckled. “Of course. Winston and I were alone together for quite a while. We learned painting, knitting, and shadow puppetry before the Recall.”

 

McCree paused for a moment. Shadow puppetry? He felt a pang as he thought of all the time Winston had spent virtually alone. He should check up on the poor guy. He should check up on all of them. He jogged forward, the violin case bouncing at his side. He’d drop it off and go find Winston, and Angie, and Fareeha, and the rest. If nothing else, his little errand had gotten him up and out of his room; he’d take advantage of his momentum while he could.

 

It was a good thing he had already decided to rejoin the world of the living. He had just enough time to choose storeroom C (not too crowded, but with enough boxes and shelving to make the violin case look innocuous on a bottom shelf) when Athena warned him that someone was approaching. 

 

He couldn’t help but chuckle at how seriously she was taking his “secret” as he shut the storeroom door and jogged a few paces away before settling into a casual strut, his thumbs caught in his beltloops. He frowned when he realized he’d left off his iconic belt. He really  _ was _ out of it, lately. 

 

He turned the corner and almost physically ran into Vaswani.

 

He had a good fifteen centimeters on her, but her cold, inexpressive face brought him up short, and he took a step back as he automatically raised a hand to the brim of his hat. “Whoa there! My apologies, miss.”

 

“None are necessary,” she said in a clipped voice. She was already looking around the corner, as if expecting more cowboys to come barrelling round. 

 

McCree’s eyes widened when he saw Genji’s brother following a half-pace behind. “Well, hey there, Hanzo. What are you two up to down here?”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed somewhat. “We are--familiarizing ourselves with the Watchpoint’s layout,” he said almost challengingly. 

 

McCree raised his hands placatingly. “Well hey, I didn’ mean anythin’ by it. Just surprised me is all.” 

 

“As you did us,” said Vaswani as she moved past him down the hall. She opened the first storeroom and looked inside. “Are you familiar with this section of the Watchpoint?” 

 

“Uh, not really, miss. I was just down here out of curiosity myself. Been awhile since I was here last.” She seemed to be paying a minimum amount of attention to him as she closed the door with a slight noise and moved to the next room. He turned to Hanzo. “Did I say some--” he was brought up a little short. Hanzo was dressed in a tight fitting black tanktop that not only left as little to the imagination as just having his entire left half hanging out, but accentuated his broad chest and tanned skin just  _ so _ , while still leaving most of that marvellous tattoo bare for all to see. McCree recovered quickly, though, swallowing back his admiration. “So I guess Reinhardt and Lena took you into town?”

 

Hanzo looked a little surprised at the question. Then, with a little flicker of recollection in his dark eyes, “No. Winston was kind enough to direct me to the gear left behind when the Watchpoint was decommissioned.” 

 

“Oh,” said McCree.

 

They stood together for a few moments while Vaswani checked each individual storeroom, though she did not deign to step inside any of them. Finally, she reached the end of the hallway, which was a deadend, and came back. “I have completed my inspection of this section, Hanzo. Shall we continue?” 

 

“Of course,” he said as he nodded at McCree and turned away. Vaswani moved to join him before she paused. 

 

“You may call me Satya.”

 

McCree blinked. “I’m sorry?”

 

She looked at him with a faintly calculating look. “I have observed that most Overwatch agents prefer to be called by their given names. I will acquiesce to this custom, therefore you may call me Satya.”

 

“Oh, uh, well,” McCree stuttered. “I’d prefer to call you whatever makes  _ you _ most comfortable, miss. If that’d be your first name, then I’d be honored, but only if you’re good with it. Uh, that goes for you, too,” he called out to Hanzo’s retreating form. “Genji introduced you as ‘Hanzo’, but if you’d prefer Shimada--”

 

Hanzo turned, and both he and Vaswani looked, stared at him really. He couldn’t help but shuffle his feet.

 

“‘Satya’ will suffice,” said the Vishkar agent. “I have noted most of the other agents refer to you by your surname. Will that be satisfactory?”

 

“Not a problem at all, Satya, thank ye,” McCree answered with a smile.

 

Hanzo did not say anything. He merely seemed to look McCree over before Satya joined him and they both set off into another section of the building. McCree shook his head and headed outside, back to the main building. He supposed Athena would be enough to keep those two out of trouble.

 

He didn’t meet anyone else until he wandered into the dining area. He stopped short. Fareeha was sitting at one of the tables, a steaming mug in front of her, one hand lying flat on the table with the other pressed to her forehead. He recognized the strong smell of boiled coffee and frowned to see her using such a large cup. He strode forward and carefully sat down next to her. “Hey there, sweetpea.”

 

She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and irritation. “Hey, cowboy.” She turned back to the mug.

 

McCree shifted in his seat. He recognized this mood, and he cursed himself internally when he finally recognized how tired and angry she was. Going out had really cleared his head, and now he was almost painfully aware how long he’d withheld his support.

 

The silence lasted a few awkward moments until he broke it. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

 

She snorted indelicately. “Don’t be. This shit’s been hard on everyone.” 

 

“Ain’ no excuse for me t’disappear like that.”

 

“You were here,” she said, taking a sip. “You’d be back. That was enough.”

 

He studied her for a few moments. “And now that I’m here?” 

 

Her lips trembled. He put a hand on her shoulder.

 

She engulfed him in a hug that made his ribs creak. He hugged her back, a bit gentler, as she pressed her face into his shoulder. 

 

He heard some people pause in the entrance to the dining area before discreetly retreating, but he focused on Fareeha. It wasn’t every day that your heroes had been there, all along, hiding from you.

 

They moved out to the terrace overlooking most of the Watchpoint after a while, both to air out the last few days and to give the small crowd milling awkwardly in the hallway outside the dining area access to dinner. Fareeha did almost all of the talking. McCree simply sat and listened. It seemed being the bridge between the old guard and the new recruits had been fairly exhausting; Fareeha had been offering support and answering questions nearly non-stop, and she was glad to finally have someone to unload onto.

 

“Hana and Lúcio keep talking and talking about how they can’t believe he could stay incognito for so long,” she said bitterly. “They’re convinced some higher-ups must have known.” She paused, looking out over the rooftops of the Watchpoint to the Mediterranean beyond. “That’s not what I’m wondering, though. He was _there_ the whole time, while Overwatch fell apart _. _ Does that sound like Strike Commander Morrison to you? Just--walking away and letting everything the Big Three worked for go to shit? Why?”

 

McCree had no answer for her.

 

After a while, Lúcio came out to let them know that he’d brought in some cooked crab from town to help lighten the mood for the base as a whole--he’d be eating with the team tonight while Angela kept watch over their “guest” in the medbay. McCree was chagrined to think he hadn’t thought of how she must be overworking herself, but Lúcio made no secret of his switching off with her so she could rest. 

 

Hana accompanied him; McCree guessed that she had been hoping they’d turn down the crab, which was evidently her favorite. She was a bit crushed when McCree and Fareeha immediately stood to go inside, but she recovered quickly and fell into step next to Fareeha, striking up an easy conversation about power suits, comparing the Raptora Mark VI with the MEKA program. 

 

“You need a shield matrix,” Hana said boldly. “I mean, rockets are awesome and all, but what’s the point when there’s only three centimeters of steel between you and the returning salvo?”

 

“Two-and-a-half, actually,” said Fareeha, looking at McCree with a twinkle in her eye, mood already greatly improved after being allowed to vent. “And who needs a shield when no one ever looks up anyway?”

 

“Well, when we finally get drills going, you’re going to wish for that extra half-centimeter. What about you, cowboy?” she said, leaning forward to peer under the brim of McCree’s hat. He had let it drop over his face as he listened to the conversation. “You gonna try to lasso and hogtie me out there?” 

 

McCree looked up and gave a lazy grin. “‘Course. What else would I be good for out there?”

 

Song answered with a grin of her own. “XP.”

 

“Ouch! Is that all I am to you?” he groaned, pressing a hand to his chest.

 

“Duh. I got nothing else to go on, since you’ve been AWOL this whole time. We can fix that easy enough, though. Next time I’m not streaming, Lúcio’s gonna try to regain his honor after getting crushed at  _ Overlook _ . You want to join the match?”

 

How could he say no? He had to narrow down the pool of potential soulmates somehow.

 

He had given the problem almost no thought during the previous days, too focused, too obsessed, really, to think about anything else. But now, as he sat at his first full team dinner, he furtively looked up and down the table and contemplated the possibilities. 

 

Zarya was sitting at the end of the table, across from Reinhardt. Their large frames necessitated a little more elbow room. Mei was sitting next to her, animatedly talking about something while Zarya watched her with a smile and a hand on the table that flexed every so often, as if she was displaying how available it was. McCree rather doubted that he and the Russian powerhouse had much to offer each other, but the advice he’d received in the plaza in Dorado cautioned him from the back of his mind.

 

Hana and Lúcio were in the middle of the group. They had apparently appointed themselves as morale officers of sorts, and were now trying to involve as many people as they could in a conversation that was either about battlefield tactics or their respective computer setups. 

 

There was potential there, he supposed, for a mentor/mentee relationship with Hana. Lena had already mentioned that Hana reminded her of McCree, and she certainly was almost as young as he had been when he’d been dragged in from the desert. 

 

The two other candidates came in late, still together, which raised his eyebrows. They sat across from each other at the far end of the table, with an empty chair between them and the next person over, though they politely acknowledged the chorus of greetings. They spoke little during the meal, even to each other, until Genji came in, unmasked, and set himself down next to Hanzo with a cheerful and loud excuse for his lateness. After that, Hanzo spoke much more, even joining in some of the general conversation that worked its way up and down the table, as if he was exerting himself for Genji’s sake. They were joined by Winston, who ambled in soon after Genji and settled at their end of the table for similar reasons as Zarya and Reinhardt. 

 

It seemed to McCree that Satya wished to speak more often than she did, but she either stopped herself with a little frown or opened her mouth but said nothing, as if at a loss of what to say. 

 

Hana and Lúcio began enthusiastically swapping tales of high adventure. They tried to drag Reinhardt into their conversation, which he was uncharacteristically hesitant to do. In the end, he managed to fend them off, but it didn’t matter much; Reinhardt had many more stories of battle than either of his young compatriots, but Hana’s tales of growing up in the South Korean gaming scene and Lúcio’s accounts of his diverse, often struggling home in the  _ favelas _ more than made up for their it. 

 

Satya looked especially flustered whenever Lúcio spoke, and McCree was sure she did not miss several subtle and not-so-subtle jabs at Vishkar which gradually drove her to silence, despite Hanzo’s, Winston’s, and, not too surprisingly, Fareeha’s best efforts to draw her attention elsewhere.

 

McCree certainly had his work cut out for him.

 

He drifted down to the ranges after dinner wound down and all four newbies disappeared in different directions. As Athena set up some targets and he slipped on his ammunition belt, he pondered the evening’s events and searched each candidate’s face and behavior for any hint that they, too, were laboring to come to terms with a lifechanging event. Unfortunately, joining an illegal paramilitary definitely counted as lifechanging, and McCree’s own turmoil from Morrison’s damned reappearance was messing with his read on these people; if the man wasn’t in a medically induced coma, McCree would have gone up to the medbay and physically shaken him.

 

More than once during dinner, he had been tempted to simply stand up and say, “Any of y’all start hearin’ music after y’all’s arrival?” But he had held himself back each time. McCree, despite appearances, was a private person--one reason he talked so much was to keep people from asking too many questions, and to make them roll their eyes and look away if he could manage it. Frankly, life without music was only one isolating, hurtful fact of his life among many that had made him cautious about baring his soul in any way, shape, or form.

 

And there was a growing sense of doubt that any of his new comrades would fill that thirty-seven-year-old hole in his life. What if he made his little announcement, and it turned out his soulmate really was some random person in Dorado that he’d met with a fleeting, unmemorable glance and immediately lost in the crowd? He’d had enough pity in his life for not meeting his soulmate. He’d be damned if he’d renew that pity for having met and lost them in the same moment.

 

He sighed, frustrated, before raising Peacekeeper at the first target. Better to lose himself in some healthy exercise and give the whole business a rest for a while, if he could. And he did, for the most part, as he gradually upped the ante with moving targets and sims as the evening drained away into night, until he felt physically and mentally exhausted and made his way to his quarters at last.

 

He couldn’t help but slip on the headphones when he crawled into bed. The night passed fairly slowly, with McCree drifting in and out of consciousness as music played in his ears, sometimes lulling him, sometimes jerking him awake when his sleep-addled brain was suddenly struck by the novelty of it all once more. 

 

In the morning he dragged himself out of bed when his alarm went off, swiping at it half-heartedly, before showering and dressing. He made sure to include his belt, after giving it a quick polish as a silent apology for neglecting it the day before. Then he carefully made his way through the dark hallways and the grey morning light to the auxiliary labs, where, in storeroom C, he began his first violin lesson.

 

He split his attention between the instructional app and Athena, but, unsurprisingly, Athena soon took over completely, interfacing with his tablet and bringing up video demos almost before he knew he needed him. The lesson went painstakingly slowly as she patiently walked him through tuning the violin, placing the round stickers, and getting a feel for the correct posture and fingering. It still felt right, however, when he was finally gliding the bow across the four strings as he worked out the pressure and angle for playing without scratching.

 

By the time Athena advised he stop, he was grinning widely.

 

Angela raised her eyebrows and frowned when he joined her for breakfast; seeing Jesse McCree up and about between 600 and 900 was a rare sight, but she looked to be in desperate need of sleep herself when he sat across from her. “You might want t’ask yourself what you’re about t’ask me,” he said, not hiding his concern as he took at the dark circles under her eyes. 

 

He was heartened by the small smile on her lips as she shook her head, but she drained the entire coffee mug before she spoke, making him wince. “I’m on the same schedule as you now,” she said with a brave attempt at a chuckle. “How do you do it?”

 

“Sheer willpower.”

 

She sighed, got up, and made a beeline back to the coffee machine.

 

McCree tried to keep the conversation light as he got a spoon and bowl to share her overly healthy and fibrous breakfast cereal. The other agents trickled in one by one. Zarya was first, followed by Lena and Hanzo. All three were covered in sweat, but as they greeted each other, Zarya boisterous, Lena energetic, Hanzo reserved, it became clear that they were coming from completely different activities. Lena was especially excited to describe her morning run, and extended invitations to all present to join her the next day as she usually did, despite the equally usual negations.

 

The other agents minus Lúcio came with various states of bedhead, except Satya, who emerged from the hallway looking pristine as mountain spring water in her work uniform. Winston was last, coming in with a jaw-cracking yawn. He allowed himself and the others time to caffeinate themselves and to get through a good portion of the meal before clearing his throat and going over the business of the day.

 

Which included a report from Angela on Morrison’s condition. She sat back and addressed a point somewhere beyond McCree’s left shoulder as she spoke. “He has improved,” she said slowly, “and I have made some progress in diagnosing the problem. It seems to be the SEP enhancement that is inhibiting the nanobots for whatever reason. It did not used to do so. Until I can figure out how to modify them, he must remain in a coma to protect his higher brain functions. How long that may take, I don’t know, but I believe his life is no longer in danger.”  

 

A few murmurs went up and down the table as Winston nodded gravely. “Thank you, Angela. As always, if there’s anything you or Lúcio need from us, please ask.” He looked over to the entrance as Genji came in, nodding to everyone as he sat next to Hanzo once more. “Now, I have an announcement. We’ll be welcoming another recruit in a few days.” Heads around the table perked up with interest, but Winston waved an enormous hand at Genji. 

 

“Yes,”said Genji, smiling and obviously pleased. “My master, Tekhartha Zenyatta, has agreed to join our cause. I have spoken of him to some of you, but suffice to say that he is a former Shambali who wishes to be more proactive in protecting the weak and the innocent. I’m looking forward to introducing him to all of you!” 

 

McCree instantly focused on Hanzo, and he could see that he did not seem pleased. He toyed idly with a piece of half-eaten toast as his eyes took on a vacant, faraway look. Before Genji could catch sight of him, though, he was brought back by Zarya as she asked, displeasure evident, “Shambali? Those Omnic hermits? Why do we bring more robots onto the team?” 

 

The effect was immediate. Hanzo’s head whipped around and he locked burning eyes on the Russian bodybuilder, a dark and ugly scowl marring his face. He was not the only one to react negatively. Lena and Angela were also frowning at her; Lena looked almost ready to jump out of her seat.

 

Winston immediately stepped in. “Mr. Zenyatta has unique healing abilities which will further supplement our medical team, which is crucial since Dr. Ziegler cannot be far from Gibraltar for a while,” he answered smoothly, but with an authoritative edge in his voice. “He is also well-known in the Omnic community, and will be a valuable liaison between us and Omnic-friendly nations as we seek to overturn the PETRAS Act. Anyone is welcome to come to me to air their concerns, but I believe we will all come to see him as a valuable addition to our team.” He then swiftly moved on, announcing the first round of drills would begin the next day, prompting a whoop of approval from Hana. 

 

Genji also moved swiftly, speaking to Hanzo in a low, soothing voice. Hanzo did not take his eyes off Zarya immediately, but he did eventually sit back and begin nodding at Genji’s words, though the scowl stubbornly remained. McCree hummed to himself softly. Lena had not been exaggerating when she had described Hanzo’s angry face.

 

Most of the agents stood up from the table when Winston finished. McCree rose also, but he called out, “Song, Shimada, Vaswani, and Zaryanova, can I get a huddle real quick?”

 

The four came over to him with various levels of questioning on their faces, though Hanzo’s was still overshadowed with anger. Zarya glanced at him with a fair bit of contempt, and she folded her arms over her chest to accentuate her large frame as she waited for McCree to speak.

 

“So, I dunno if he’s said, but Winston asked me t’give y’all some weapons training if you required some after you arrived,” he said, looking from one recruit to another. “I’d like t’take you to the firing range, uh, individually, t’see where you stand. I doubt y’all need it,” he added as he saw Hanzo’s frown deepening, “it’s just another way t’analyze and integrate your styles into the team. Since drills start tomorrow, I’d like t’get that done today if possible.” 

 

The group all nodded, except Satya who flattened her lips into a straight line, but she, along with the others, gave times when they would be available, and McCree had Athena reserve the firing range before he allowed the little meeting to break up, to his relief if nobody else’s. Hanzo and Zarya had been staring daggers at each other at every opportunity.

 

Zarya was up first. She made no secret of her doubts for the necessity of target practice, at least of the kind that she supposed McCree could offer. Zarya’s particle cannon was fairly close range and emitted a visible beam anyway, after all. McCree did find something she could work on, though. She raised her eyebrows when he walked out of the armory with a grenade launcher, the closest approximation they had to her explosive charges, but she nodded gravely when he lobbed grenades at the target bots to better effect than she had. She even handed her particle cannon to McCree for a while so he could be more familiar with its specific weight and feel. He had to admit, it was hard not to feel a surge of powerful satisfaction as he fired charge after charge at the hapless bots. 

 

He noted that Zarya seemed to be watching him closely as he experimented with the cannon. It was hard to explain why, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with his predicament. When the session was over, she made a surprising offer as he handed her cannon back. 

 

“Your upper and lower body are well balanced,” she said, looking him over, “but you need more strength in your arms and back. Work with me, and in three months you can trade in your revolver for a particle cannon of your own.”

 

“Y’know, I’ll take you up on that,” McCree said, stretching out his aching back a little. A thought occurred to him, making him rub his chin thoughtfully. “Would you be willing t’do the same for any of the others?”

 

“I have already offered,” said Zarya with a wide smile, “to make Reinhardt a true mountain. He does not work his core enough, and his old bones need the stabilization.” 

 

McCree laughed. “Now there’s somethin’ t’look forward to! But I was thinkin’ more of Torbjörn, Vaswani--and Shimada.” Zarya’s face fell at the last name, but McCree pushed on, waving his metallic hand around. “Folks like us usually need help keepin’ the muscles above our prosthetics from atrophyin’. If you’re willin’ t’play personal trainer--”

 

Zarya picked at a hidden spot on her cannon. “I can certainly offer, but I know already Shimada would not welcome my help.”

 

“Naw, he won’,” McCree agreed, “Especially if you don’ apologize for raggin’ on his brother.”

 

She looked up sharply. “His  _ brother? _ ”

 

“What, nobody told you?” He shook his head ruefully. He would have expected Lena to explain almost immediately after their little altercation on the transport. “Shimada Genji and Shimada Hanzo. They’re brothers.”

 

“The ninja Omnic is human?” Zarya seemed bewildered, despite having seen Genji’s face several times by now. Did she think he’d stolen a heavily scarred human face from somewhere? “What happened to him, to make him that way?” 

 

McCree chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Best t’ask Genji, and Genji only, for that one,” he said at last. “But for now, it’s enough we cleared up why Hanzo doesn’ appreciate you sayin’ such things. Doesn’ do well for the team as a whole, either, t’be honest. And it won’t when the actual Omnic arrives.” 

 

Zarya snorted as she swung her particle cannon onto her shoulder. “I do not fear the Omnic monk,” she said dismissively. “Even with the ninja we outnumber them six to one. If the truth makes others uncomfortable, I will remain silent until I cannot.”

 

McCree decided that was as good as he was going to get. He did make a point to arrange regular target practice, followed by a session in the gym, before Zarya left.

 

Hana arrived soon after. She brought a welcome change in atmosphere, much more enthusiastic and energetic, even if it seemed to be because she expected McCree to teach her trick shots learned on some rodeo circuit. McCree suppressed a laugh at that, and again when she presented the pink peashooter she kept as her backup if her MEKA was unavailable.

 

It did pack a surprising amount of punch, though. They spent most of the time joking with each other as Hana lined up shot after shot. She was fresh enough from basic training in the South Korean armed forces that she didn’t need too much instruction, just practice to tighten up her aim and reloading times a little. He did make a note to look into a slightly more formidable sidearm for her. She managed to needle one trick shot out of him before they they were done--it was a simple one, but she was suitably impressed when he got first three clay pigeons, then three more with a richochet, all in one shot. 

 

Before she left, she told him that he and Lúcio could come get destroyed at  _ Overlook _ the next night. He agreed, making a mental note to research the game a little so he didn’t completely embarrass himself. He watched her go contemplatively. The woman really was smart as a whip, friendly and blunt, but it was obvious she was determined to be almost painfully competent at anything she set her mind to. What struck McCree the most, however, was the notion that he could detect a similar shell game with her near-constant bubbly chatter that he played with his own ramblings and charm, a kind of protective screen to distract and deflect. It was a striking resemblance, if it was truly there. 

 

His thoughts were soon interrupted by Satya. She came in with a distinctly uninterested air. McCree soon found why. Her photon projector was a marvellous piece of technology, homing in on Satya’s targets when she merely pointed it in their general direction. He was less impressed with the blaster mode. It was obvious she used it rarely if ever, a fact that she admitted freely.

 

“I make sure there is no need for it,” she said primly.

 

“Alright, but just supposin’ you did need it,” he coaxed.

 

“I will not.” 

 

“You can’ predict everythin’, honey,” he replied, a little testily. “You think you can plan for everythin’ out there, but somethin’  _ will _ surprise you eventually.”

 

“Then even if I do train to use it, it will turn eventually out to be useless?” 

 

“Aw, looks like we got ourselves a pedant!” She had startled a laugh out of him, though, which seemed to surprise her. “Let’s just say we’re decreasin’ the probabilty of you findin’ yourself defenseless. How angry will you be if you end up somewhere havin’ t’admit that you were mistaken not t’indulge me?”

 

She  _ did _ frown at that. “I will comply, for now,” she said with clear reluctance. “However, I reserve the right to discontinue the exercise if I determine it to be a waste of resources.”

 

McCree nodded agreeably, smiling. “Deal. Alright, go ahead and start on the rest of them targets.”

 

To his puzzlement, she stopped to quickly weave something out of the blue light of her prosthetic, her movements rather entrancing to watch. Whatever she built looked to be a headset of some kind, but when she put it on, it merely circled her head, with a couple of appendages that pressed against seemingly random points on her skull.

 

She stared blankly at his questioningly look, forcing him to ask, “What’s that thing?” 

 

“Ah,” she said, tapping an elegant finger on the headset, “it is a Vishkar product that has yet to be released to the general public. I have applied for permission to hand out units to team members during our drills, but Winston wishes to study it before he allows its use. I anticipate that it will greatly improve the team’s efficiency.”

 

“But what is it?” 

 

She look mildly ruffled when she realized she had not truly answered his question. “It is a unit that passes a direct current through the learning centers of the brain, allowing for more information to be processed and retained. It can improve skill acquisition and retention by several hundred percent when used correctly.”

 

“Huh. How about that,” said McCree, shooting a calculating look at it. Shooting electricity straight through your brain? No wonder Winston wanted to make sure it was safe before unleashing it on the team.

 

It did seem to do its job. Satya improved quite a bit in the time they worked together. She apparently did not consider the session to be a waste of time by the time they were finished, agreeing to another session easily enough. After she left, McCree jogged up to the dining area to grab a quick lunch before running back down to meet Hanzo. 

 

The former yakuza was already there when he got back; indeed, he seemed to be leaving, almost bumping into McCree when he came through the door. “Hey there, Hanzo!” said McCree, a little breathlessly from his rush. “Ready for--” Hanzo cut him off with a sharp gesture at the range with the large bow in his hands. McCree’s eyes widened.

 

It was positively wrecked. Piles of shattered practice bots were littered everywhere. The back wall was lined with a row of targets, all of which had at least a half-dozen arrows sticking out of the bull’s-eye. Some of them had even been split in half lengthwise by other arrows, Robin Hood-style. McCree glanced up at the enormous scoreboard hanging on the wall opposite the entrance. The range was set on a level designed for an automatic firearm, but the time to completion was well below the estimated median for an average Overwatch agent.

 

In a way, McCree thought dimly, he should’ve expected it. Hanzo was the only one of the four newbies to heavily specialize in marksmanship, but it was still quite the sight. McCree whistled softly and turned back to Hanzo, catching him just before he slipped out the door. He stopped when McCree cleared his throat, turning to look back. “I, uh--I don’ think you’ll be needin’ much from me,” he said, a little breathlessly for a different reason now.

 

Hanzo shook his head. “I already practice daily, as I have since I was seven,” he said dryly. McCree swallowed and nodded. Hanzo waited to see if he would say anything more before nodding back and turning to leave. He paused in mid-step and looked back. “Genji does say you outmatch me in speed,” he said with a thoughtful tone. “I would like to see what he meant by that.”

 

“Oh, well,” said McCree, perking up. “I can arrange that.”

 

Hanzo nodded, but he raised a hand when McCree took a step towards the range. “Some other time,” he said. “I am not--at the moment, I am not able to properly appreciate a demonstration.” 

 

McCree couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, but he nodded. Hanzo disappeared out the door, and McCree looked over the veritable disaster zone and whistled once more. “Damn,” he said, reaching for a cigarette as he wandered out to find some fresh air. “Goddamn.”

 

The rest of the day passed with a meeting with Winston to report the results of the training sessions and catch up on the general business of the Watchpoint and Overwatch, which made him miss the team dinner. After a quiet, pensive dinner, he indulged in another solo session on the range, cleared by Athena’s cleaning bots. McCree found himself needing much less time with Peacekeeper before feeling ready for sleep, which was a welcome relief. As he crawled into bed, he put the headphones on once more, but for the first time in a week something other than the music dominated his thoughts. It did have a certain rhythm, though, almost a steady drumbeat that pulsed through his mind like a counterpoint to his heartbeat.

 

Zarya, Hana, Satya, Hanzo. Zarya, Hana, Satya, Hanzo. Zarya, Hana, Satya, Hanzo…

 

Sleep came slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A oneshot. Pfft.
> 
> This rapidly spun out of control, so have some set up. This will be four chapters total, though, so things will hurry along from here on out.
> 
> Hopefully McCree's dilemma seems believable enough--I think he'd be a good buddy for all four of his "choices" here, but it's a bit difficult to keep him from knowing which he'd be buddybuddy with, if you know what I'm saying.


	3. My Heart Wants to Sing

The next day was the first day of the rest of McCree’s life, in a way. 

 

When his alarm went off, he got up, showered, dressed, and rendezvoused with Athena in storeroom C to practice. The second day was as simple as the first, though things moved fast enough for McCree to start working his way up and down scales on the A and E strings. He even scratched out a simple tune, something he might have half-remembered from his childhood. 

 

It was something slow, even mournful. He was strangely sure it was something meant to be played at sunset while the light of day was slowly failing, the stars were coming out, and the wind was sweeping down from the mountain range--in other words, oddly distinctive, yet lost in the depths of his memory. The beginning was easy enough to imitate with his beginner’s level skill, but it didn’t sound quite right. He thought it might be the high voice of the violin, but even when he skipped a little ahead in the lesson plan and tried to figure it out on G and D, it seemed to be in the wrong octave--mostly. Whatever it was, it was incomplete; he could only get so far before he seemed to run into a stone wall. It seemed to be a little too abrupt to be the end of the song, but his fingers started cramping when he tried to jog his memory a little by working the scales a little. They were still getting used to the still-awkward grip on the neck. 

 

It was a little frustrating; what little he had was insufficient for Athena to identify. “Might have more to do with my skill than your algorithms,” he chuckled as he drew the bow across three strings at once with a ghastly noise (and how odd to think that was how all music used to sound).

 

“Yes,” she said with a soft laugh of her own at his exaggerated squawk. “You have made me curious, though. Think on it. As your skill improves, you may be able to recreate more of it.”

 

Despite the mystery, he was pleased overall with his progress, and that he was recreating anything at all. He loped back to the main building in good spirits to eat breakfast and meet up for target practice with that day’s new recruits, Hana and Satya. 

 

Hana practically hummed with energy; she was looking forward to the team drill, enough so that she asked to leave early to “get her baby ready.” Calling a 1500kg mech with 25mm caliber ammunition a “baby” left him bemused, especially since Reinhardt had shown him countless videos of her utilizing its self-destruct to rather splashy effect. He would never do such a thing with Peacekeeper--he called her “sweetpea” for the same reason as Fareeha, after all, and with a similar amount of affection, to Fareeha’s dismay.

 

Satya said very little when she arrived, and less still during the session as she bent even more of her formidable concentration on the targets than usual. It seemed to be working; she was showing rather breathtaking improvement. McCree found himself hoping it was her concentration and not the hard light halo around her head that was responsible--he would rather give as little credit as possible to shooting electricity through her brain, though at that moment there wasn’t much he could say to discount its impressive results.

 

At the end of the session, she powered down her photo projector and surveyed the devastated range, nodding primly. “Perfection.”

 

“Pretty damn good,” he agreed.

 

She frowned. “Where is improvement needed?”

 

McCree stared at her for a second, caught off-guard. “I, uh. I was agreein’ with you.” 

 

“Ah,” she said, but the frown remained. “Athena, please forward all training documentation to my personal database for review.” 

 

“Good idea,” McCree said, trying to sound encouraging. “Always a good idea to see where you can polish up your form and tactics.” 

 

The frown deepened. 

 

McCree opened his mouth to start backpedaling, but he closed it with a snap when he went over the short conversation in his mind and couldn’t find where to backpedal from. 

 

He’d have to figure it out later. Now there was only time to eat lunch, gear up, and participate in the expanded Overwatch’s first drill.

 

It was certainly--something.

 

There were plenty of problems to solve, of course. McCree’s team included both Hana and Lúcio, and the two were beyond excited to show off, both to each other and to everyone else, which meant they didn’t take team cohesion entirely seriously. 

 

More surprisingly, Genji was almost as eager as they were, matching their chatter and bad jokes over the comm and even egging them on as much as they did him, a drastic departure from his Blackwatch days when his fighting style was marked by a sullen silence, interrupted only by shouted challenges and occasionally a threat. At one point, Hana cut off her rocket booster a tad too early and nearly dropped directly on him, and McCree cringed when she laughingly said over the comm, “Hey! Watch out, Mr. Roboto, I almost crushed you like a tin can!”

 

Then he could barely keep from openly gaping when Genji replied, with as much if not more mirth, “Your mistake. It is to be expected; you are only human.” 

 

Quite the difference indeed. In the old days, such a comment would have resulted in scars.

 

McCree was secretly glad Tracer had been assigned to the other team in the adjacent training room, otherwise the youthful exuberance might have sent him to an early grave. As it was, he and Fareeha were able to keep everyone more or less on track, with plenty of not-so-discreet help from Mei and her ice walls to keep everyone on route to the objective. Despite the distinct lack of professionalism (and worrying about  _ professionalism _ was enough to age McCree twenty years), they captured it far more often than not--when attacking. They had a much harder time when they switched to defense later on, though they still managed to pull off a few wins against Athena and her army of bots. 

 

The drills ended in the early evening, and Hana nearly gave McCree a heart attack when she literally popped out of her MEKA, flipped in mid-air, and almost landed on top of him. She tried to take advantage of his surprise and grapple him into a headlock, but he managed to turn the tables and headlock her instead, laughing as she struggled to escape his merciless noogie. Lúcio came to her rescue, and she punched him in the shoulder as soon as she was free. “You’re gonna regret that tonight, buckaroo!” she hissed, a wide grin robbing her words of all venom. He believed her, all the same--the gaming guides he’d looked up during lunch looked fairly complicated.

 

They met up with most of the rest of the agents in the hallway outside the simulation rooms, generating enough noise for a group three times their size as both teams contrasted and compared results. The other team was not nearly as exuberant; both Satya and Zarya looked tightlipped, and Winston looked slightly downcast. Their mood didn’t seem to improve when Hana and Lúcio found out they had garnered a substantially higher number of wins than the other team and immediately began ribbing them. Reinhardt, glancing at his teammates, summoned an enormous smile that almost eclipsed the others’ more preoccupied expressions. “Ah, how soon you are to crow! We have not yet hit our stride, but when we do, we will be unstoppable!” 

 

The entire group swept up to the dining area for a huge dinner to celebrate the first drill (if not its results). When they got there and spread out among the largest table, McCree could finally confirm what he suspected in the crowded, narrow hallways on the way up: Hanzo was nowhere to be seen. Genji broke off from an animated conversation with Lúcio and Hana almost as soon as they entered, gathering two trays piled high with Torbjörn’s meatballs drowned in a sauce his wife had specially sent in for the occasion, and disappeared in the direction of the roof access. It seemed he knew where his brother was. McCree felt a fair bit of curiosity about how the archer had fared in the drills, given the state he’d left the range in the day before, but he didn’t get much of a chance to hear anything Winston or Lena had to say on the matter. Hana and Lúcio dominated the conversation once more, and they drowned out nearly everybody else, though Reinhardt did say something about “four bots at once, with a single arrow!” That was intriguing.

 

He expected that Satya would leave quickly without her usual dining companion, but he hid a smile when Fareeha approached her. She made to sit directly across from Satya as Hanzo usually did, but, oddly, she paused suddenly and moved down one seat. McCree couldn’t see Satya very well from where he was sitting, but he could see her straighten slightly as Fareeha leaned forward and struck up a conversation.

 

He tried to keep an eye on them throughout the meal, but he was sitting next to Winston, who was interested in a less boastful account of the team’s performance than Lúcio and Hana were currently providing.

 

“All in all, not too shabby,” he finished as he speared another meatball with his fork. “Put us on the roster, we can start kickin’ ass tomorrow.”

 

Winston glanced over at their two youngest members. Lúcio and Hana were trying to convince Torbjörn, Reinhardt, Mei, and Zarya to try catching meatballs in their mouths. Reinhardt and Zarya needed no convincing. Torbjörn had probably already seen the aftermath of such an endeavor, courtesy of his children, and was trying to dissuade them with increasingly loud Swedish cursing. Mei stood off to one side, fretting, her hands pressed against her mouth.

 

“You think so?” Winston asked cautiously. “I was listening to the comm chatter when I swapped out with Zarya. Your team did better, but it didn’t seem like anyone was taking things very seriously.”

 

McCree shrugged. “That’s trainin’ for ya. It’s just as much about posturin’ as anythin’ else. All of us have already been out there. We just gotta figure each other out.” 

 

Winston poked at his salad. “Everyone on our team’s been out there, too,” he said quietly, “and we barely kept it together.” He glanced up and down the table. McCree leaned closer automatically. “Everyone on your team except Lúcio was either Overwatch or military. Our team was made up of more independent agents than yours, so I’m hoping that explains our sharper learning curve, but it’s--discouraging. We simply weren’t adapting to each other’s fighting styles. We weren’t even ‘posturing’. We were too busy fragmenting and going off on our own.”

 

McCree hummed a little, thinking. “Maybe you should revamp the teams, so there’s a more even spread of people with military training t’the independents.” 

 

“You said so yourself that your team could go out and fight tomorrow,” replied Winston, a little tersely. “You might have to. I’m not splitting up a team that fell together naturally.” 

 

McCree hummed again. Then, perking up a little, “Didn’t Satya offer you that faster-learnin’ doohicky to you?”

 

Winston blinked in surprise. “She told you about that?”

 

“She’s been usin’ it durin’ our trainin’ sessions. I don’ know how much I like the idea of it, but she’s been improvin’ a lot faster than pretty much anyone else I’ve ever trained. If y’all gotta learn how t’be a team, it might help.”

 

Winston bit his thin bottom lip. “We can talk about it--” he began, but he stopped when Satya stood. McCree looked over as discreetly as he could, prepared to see disappointment on Fareeha’s face, but to his pleasure she was smiling as she bid Satya good night. Satya responded in kind, and, though eying the group now throwing meatballs at each other with evident displeasure, managed to give a friendly enough nod to answer Fareeha’s smile before leaving. 

 

Fareeha watched her go, and when she was out of the room, she stood and went over to the group. “Hey guys--sorry to interrupt, but how much do you know about Hindus?”

 

“Now that she’s gone,” muttered Winston, recapturing McCree’s attention, “She did indeed offer Vishkar’s transcranial brain stimulation technology, but I have reservations, especially after what happened in Rio.” McCree nodded solemnly, sparing a look at Lúcio, who was listening to Fareeha with a strange look on his face. “The theory is sound, and it would be easy enough to implement, but I’ll feel better after I establish a baseline for what a brain looks like pre- and post-stimulation so I’d know what it looks like when something fishy’s going on.”

 

McCree nodded again. It was a wise precaution. Then a thought suddenly struck him. “Does it matter what the brain is learnin’ when it’s bein’ stimulated?”

 

Winston tilted his head. “What? Uh, no. Not really, so long as I got a look at it before and after.”

 

McCree bit his bottom lip, glancing at the others in the room. Whatever Fareeha said seemed to have cooled any enthusiasm for the meatball-throwing, and instead the group was drifting towards the holoscreens set up in the corner. It looked like he was about to be summoned to get owned. “I got a research proposal for ya,” he said as Hana looked at him over her shoulder with a predatory grin. “You gonna be up late again?” Winston nodded. “I’ll come by, then. Right after,” he said, standing with a groan and picking up his plate, “I get thoroughly humiliated by the world’s greatest pro gamer.”

 

He wasn’t sorry for the delay. It would give him time to figure out how to avoid revealing his predicament to Winston, if he could.

 

He tried to summon some patience and good humor to offset the indignity he was expecting as he sat on the biggest couch facing the holoscreen projector, but it only took a few minutes for him to realize that, despite her threats, Hana was far more interested in getting him to learn the ropes of the game than grinding him into the dirt. He played alongside Reinhardt and Fareeha, who joined the impromptu tutorial of what seemed to be one of Hana’s favorite games. She hardly touched any of the controllers, instead standing off to one side and explaining the different characters’ abilities and moves and even a fair bit of the backstory as they figured out what the hell they were doing. 

 

Lúcio had the fourth controller. He was a lot better than the three newbies, of course, but his advantage largely disappeared when Hana decreed they were ready to start playing on the live servers. They really were decimated then, even though they were supposedly being matched against players with similar inexperience. Hana stepped in after watching a couple of matches, directing them like a general in battle and pointing out quicker routes, hidden healthpacks, and perches for the game’s sniper characters.

 

It was really and truly fun, and soon nearly everyone who hadn’t already left piled on and around the big couch to laugh and shriek and yell at the holoscreens, not bothered at all that the death count far outstriped the kills as the hours passed.

 

As midnight approached, the non-players in the room drifted away, and Reinhardt begged off to go get some sleep, enduring some comments about his age as he left. Fareeha left soon after, yawning loudly and clapping a hand on everyone’s shoulder as she went. Lúcio stayed the longest, but he was soon nodding where he sat on the floor, and Hana took his controller away when he ran off a cliff for the third time. He tried to keep watching, but it only took one more match before he was snoring softly on the floor leaning back against the couch.

 

McCree was still enjoying himself even though he was now playing on teams made up of strangers. Hana was content to watch from where she had settled down on the other end of the couch, Lúcio in-between them. 

 

“Surprised you don’ want to wipe the floor with my face,” he commented, his tongue between his teeth as he leaned to one side and willed his character to combat roll out of enemy fire. 

 

She laughed. “It’s enough that we both know I would.” She grinned at McCree’s huffed laugh that was interrupted by a string of curses under his breath when he walked into an ambush before continuing. “Besides, if all I did was just steamroll you over and over, would you ever want to play again?”

 

“Nope,” he replied instantly, mashing the buttons as he tried to escape with his life. “Got better things--fuuuuck!--t’do than--shitshit _ shiiiit _ \--thaaaaaaat, aw goddammit!” 

 

“Rest in pieces,” she intoned solemnly as he was sent back to the spawn point. The match was almost over, so he looked over at her, a grin on his face, about to ask if she’d take over and give the opposing team a nasty surprise the next round when she said, just as solemnly, “I’m glad this wasn’t a mistake.”

 

Something in her tone, in the way she stared straight ahead, and in her falsely relaxed posture tipped him off that she wasn’t talking about teaching him the game. As the match’s stats flashed by on the screen, he carefully laid the controller off to one side. “That what, exactly, wasn’ a mistake?” he asked gently.

 

She looked at him sidelong for a moment. “This. Overwatch.”

 

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin absently, feeling the bristles of his beard scratch at his fingertips as he searched for the right words. The silence grew for a minute or two before he sighed and opted for honesty. “I wouldn’ call it just yet. Could still be.” 

 

He didn’t miss the twitch in her lips, the abortive smile that smoothed away almost instantly. But the relief was plain in her voice when she said, “Yeah, I guess.” She tilted her head back, eyes closed, for a moment. “But it’s not, like--it’s not a shitstorm from the get go, you know? Like, everyone here’s screwed up, or rusty, or--but they’re all good at what they do, you know? Like we might be able to pull this off somehow.”

 

“Somehow,” he repeated, watching her. 

 

She turned to face him, her face just as scrutinizing as his own. “You’re not--you don’t sound--like--”

 

“Convinced?” he supplied helpfully. She shrugged, and he gave her a thin smile. “I’m pretty hard t’convince. There’s plenty that can go wrong and throw everthin’ in the shitter, specially after just one day.”

 

“Oh, for sure,” Hana said, waving a hand. “But--do you think we got a chance?”

 

He laughed a little hollowly. “Everythin’s by chance. But do I think our odds are good?” He stopped to give it all some thought, the agents, the drills, Overwatch’s nebulous status, the problems they’d be facing. Hana continued to watch him, her eyes dark and intense. Finally he gave a short sigh and a tiny smile. “I don’ know.”

 

Hana looked away. “That’s not what I wanted to hear,” she muttered. McCree snorted, and she looked back. “But thanks for that. For being honest. It was getting a little--frustrating, feeling like I was the only one doubting any of this.”

 

“Yeah, well, there’s only so much confidence that can rub off on ya from our resident optimists,” replied McCree, nodding at Lúcio dozing between them. Hana shook her head wryly.

 

“I don’t know if he’s ever doubted anything ever.”

 

“There’s plenty of room for it,” he assured her, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “Plenty of room.” He paused for a moment, considering. The shell game seemed to be in abeyance, so maybe he’d get an honest answer. “What made you join up, if you weren’ sure it was worth it?” he asked.

 

Her eyes sharpened. 

 

He shrugged back. “You don’ gotta tell me, I’m just curious.” He, along with most of the other senior members of Overwatch, had been surprised to learn that someone as famous as Hana Song would be enlisting, or that the South Korean military would allow her to come with MEKA in tow. Winston had offered a vague excuse, something about her coming under the guise of some public outreach program, but it was nowhere near enough to satisfy McCree. 

 

At first it seemed like Hana was going to repeat the same excuse, or some variant. But then something flickered over her face.  She glanced at every door leading into the room and gently poked at Lúcio, who moaned softly in his sleep, fell onto his side, and curled up into a ball before snoring again. 

 

Satisfied, she said in a low voice, “My grandma’s the Commissioner General of the National Police Agency back home.” 

 

McCree raised his eyebrows. “Yi So-yeon is your grandma?”

 

Hana blinked at him in surprise. “You know her?”

 

“Heard of her. A lot.” He rubbed his face. “She used to have quite the reputation around Overwatch. We collaborated with her a lot before the Fall.” By  _ we _ he meant Overwatch. Blackwatch had never collaborated with anyone--that had been one of old Gabe’s ironclad rules.

 

Hana nodded, her eyes lighting up slightly. “She went apeshit when it was disbanded. When the Secretary General of the UN visited Seoul three years ago, she assigned herself as one of his bodyguards and spent every drive anywhere they went yelling at him about what a mistake it was.” McCree smiled slightly. That sounded exactly like old Yi, but he couldn’t say that he agreed with her after Switzerland. 

 

“Anyway, when Winston put out the call--well. More people know than let on. She came to me and she--” Hana hesitated for a split second, but it was enough. “--asked if I would come help, if she could convince the military to let me. And they did. So. Here I am.”

 

“Asked.” The word slipped out unbidden, even as McCree leaned back, looking past Hana, his eyes unfocused. 

 

“Yeah. Asked,” she repeated, with a hint of challenge. 

 

He refocused on her with a small, bitter smile. “Twenty years ago, three days after I turned seventeen, I was ‘asked’, too. Your circumstances are a lot different than mine, but--just because they ask don’ mean they’re givin’ you a choice.”

 

Hana was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” she said softly.

 

McCree looked down at his hands, one flesh, one metallic. He brushed a little at the back of his metal hand. “Don’ get me wrong,” he said, just as soft. “You’re light-years ahead of where I was when I was your age. My choice had t’do with savin’ my own skin. Yours had t’do with savin’ lives. Just--just don’ feel like you have t’convince yourself you wouldn’ have it any other way, y’know?”

 

Hana let out a loud, forceful exhalation, not quite a bitter laugh, but close. “Life was simpler when I really could treat it like a game. Now it’s serious, but I gotta keep  _ saying _ it’s a game, for, you know. Everyone.”

 

McCree nodded. “I dunno how you do it, t’be honest. That’s one reason Reinhardt admires you so much--he did a lot of that same kind of thing. He was the face of both the Crusaders and Overwatch for a while.”

 

“Really?” she asked, eyebrows raised. 

 

“Oh yeah! Ask Fareeha, she’s got some of his old posters, signed by the man himself. He was already around thirty, though, when they started making him pose and all that. He’s impressed you’re doin’ all that and more for MEKA at nineteen.”

 

“Really,” she repeated, with an air of contemplation. “I just thought he was--uh--”

 

“A superfan?” laughed McCree. “Well, yeah, he’s that, but he mostly because he identifies with you. More than you might expect.”

 

“Huh. Just like you.”

 

McCree blinked and smiled slowly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

Hana smiled back, with a lot more of that confidence that she had been showcasing. His suspicions had been right, it seemed--a lot of it was showcasing, but showcasing with a purpose and a heavy weight that he couldn’t imagine shouldering at such a young age. He had been out for himself at seventeen, both before and after his “recruitment”, and even after he discovered he actually did have a few scruples left to trouble his blackened heart, he’d never had nothing and no one bigger than the Big Three to let down. Not like Hana, who carried the faith of a nation. 

 

“Alright, enough heavy stuff,” she announced tiredly, rubbing at her eyes distractedly as she stood and waved the holocreen off. She looked down at Lúcio, snoring at her feet. “What’s the protocol here? Do we leave him or get some warm water?”

 

“No warm water. Who knows when we could get the carpet cleaned,” said McCree, adjusting easily to the change in conversation. “If you can get him onto the kitchen tiles, though--” Hana tried to muffle a cackle behind her hands, an evil grin appearing when she slowly and carefully took Lúcio’s slack hands in her own and began dragging him towards the kitchen. 

 

Unfortunately for her, Lúcio proved to be a light sleeper, and he was soon dragging himself sluggishly to his feet mumbling “I’m up, I’m up, whatever you’re planning, it’s not happening.” Hana groaned, disappointment plain on her face as she dodged his half-hearted shove. He teetered on his feet, and McCree reached out and steadied him. “Oh, hey M'cree. Glad you’re here, you woulda stopped her.”    
  


“Yep, sure would’ve,” he deadpanned, grinning as Hana stuck out her tongue.

 

“Hey, while I got you here,” slurred Lúcio, apparently as good as drunk in his half-awake state, “You’re hilarious when you’re getting your ass kicked.” 

 

“Am I now?” asked McCree as they both steered him towards the exit to the team’s quarters.

 

“Yeah, during the game I coulda sworn you are getting almost kind of sing-songy. Like, ‘ShiiiIIIIIiiiit’, fuuUUUuuck” supplied Lúcio, elongating the word with a rising and falling pitch. “Kinda distracted me from the game a little. Wasn’t expecting that.”

 

McCree stiffened. “Uh--” 

 

“Why wouldn’t he?” asked Hana, rolling her eyes. “Tons of people probably do that.  _ You _ probably do that.”

 

“Yeah, but he hasn’t--” Lúcio jerked up with a look of horror. “Oh. Oh _ shit _ , I did it again! I’m sorry, McCree, I-” 

 

“Naw, don’ wor--,” said McCree hurriedly. 

 

“Guy hasn’t met his soulmate,” cut in Lúcio, speaking to Hana. “Not yet. Sorry dude, I forgot again--”

 

“Really, don’ worry about it,” said McCree, more forcefully than he intended, making both Lúcio and Hana wince a little. He cursed inwardly then, lowering his voice and forcing a smile. “Been a long day. You’re three sheets t’the wind, kid, and not even a drink in ya.” 

 

“Yeah,” said Lúcio, although he now looked as though he’d had ice water thrown on him.

 

“C’mon,” intervened Hana, coming up behind him and guiding him by the shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here before you say anything else, Mr. No-Filter.” Lúcio nodded a little mournfully as he allowed her to start guiding him away. She shot a faintly calculating look at McCree. “Hey,” she said, with a little forced cheer. “At least now I know next time we play I can turn the music off. Pretty distracting, right?”

 

It took McCree a moment, just enough for Hana to begin to waver. “Oh! Yeah, sure is. You haven’--?”

 

“Nope,” she said. “Not yet. So, same boat, I guess.” 

 

“Same boat,” he repeated.

 

She shrugged and turned away, shepherding Lúcio to the exit. McCree stayed where he was as he watched them go, not missing the last glance they both threw over their shoulders. He gave a little sigh and turned, meaning to head into the kitchen to find a little something to eat to help throw off the strangely bitter way the night had ended. 

 

He paused when Hana’s voice floated in from the hallway. 

 

“Wha?! Oh, sorry, you snuck up on us.”

 

Whoever it was replied too softly for McCree to hear. He waited a few seconds for them to emerge from the hallway, but shrugged and went into the kitchen when nobody appeared.

 

It wasn’t until he was rummaging around in the fridge that he heard a near-silent tap on the kitchen tiles, and he straightened enough to look over the refrigerator door. “Oh. Hey there, Hanzo.”

 

Hanzo nodded at him distractedly as he went straight for the omnipresent tea kettle on the counter and lifted it to the adjacent sink. McCree studied him, frowning a little. Hours after the drill ended, he was still dressed in full-battle gear, left side uncovered, hair caught up in the high ponytail, and golden ribbon swaying behind him.

 

Until he leaned forward slightly to turn on the tap, when it draped itself across his exposed back. McCree focused on the way it caught on the large and defined muscles, built up by years of archery and training until they seemed to flex with even the slightest movement.

 

McCree swallowed, letting his eyes wander down the line of the ribbon to its end fluttering slightly just above the curve of his--

 

Hanzo straightened and turned. McCree ducked down and stuck his head back in the fridge, wincing at the juvenile nature of the act, but he was motivated as much by wariness as he was by embarrassment. The man was still on probation as far as he was concerned. 

 

He stared determinedly into the fridge without seeing any of its contents, listening for any movement behind him that might suggest Hanzo had caught him staring. It took a second or two, but all Hanzo seemed to do was place the kettle back on its stand and turn it on. McCree relaxed minutely, not having realized he had tensed. He frowned--why was he allowing himself to get so wound up? The man was a vision, but it had been a long time since McCree had gotten so worked up over a pretty, er, face.

 

He was brought back to reality by a discreet cough. 

 

“Are you--looking for something?” Hanzo’s voice was lower and rougher than usual, tinged with fatigue.

 

McCree shook his head, more to clear it than to answer Hanzo’s question, as he straightened. “I am, but I don’ know for what,” he said as offhandedly as he could as he opened up the freezer. “Somethin’ t’finish up the night.” Hanzo didn’t reply as McCree foraged through the freezer, pushing aside bags and small boxes and frowning at their labels. He sighed and shut the freezer, turning and leaning casually against the refrigerator. “Nothin’ seems t’be temptin’ me.” Hanzo was standing rigidly by the kettle, looking down at a cup and tea bag at its side. “Isn’ it a bit late for tea?”

 

Hanzo glanced up and back down. “Yes.”

 

McCree tilted his head to one side. “Then--?”

 

Hanzo fiddled with the tea bag for a moment before seeming to realize what he was doing and jerked back his hand. “It is not wise to have caffeine this late, but I felt the need for something warm. To--to finish up the night.”

 

McCree nodded slowly with a small smile. “Well, I reckon we got some other stuff that might do you better. Let’s see here--” He stepped forward, opened the cabinet above the kettle, and began rifling through it. “Or, uh, maybe we don’,” he said as he pushed aside several bags of chips and candies that definitely did not belong there. “I don’ see any mint or ginger or--wait, here we go.” He pulled out a small cardboard box and waved it at Hanzo. “Chamomile.”

 

“Chamomile?” 

 

“Ayup. My mama used to grow it out in the yard and brew a whole pot when she caught wind of my ‘shenanigans’,” he said with a faint chortle, forming air quotes as best he could with one hand full. “It’s good for both relaxin’ and sleepin’. Only bad thing is that it tastes like hay, but it’ll do ya good.” McCree glanced at the Hanzo’s small tea cup and pulled out a bag, but he caught a glimpse of no-small amount of reluctance flicker across Hanzo’s face, so he added. “I think I could actually use some myself, now that I got it in my hands. Mind sharin’ the water?” Hanzo shook his head. McCree hummed in thanks as he got himself a mug and set it down on the counter, dumping two bags inside. If Hanzo was still reluctant, he didn’t show it as McCree leaned against the counter, but he did put his own tea bag back where it had come from.

 

The silence seemed more comfortable to McCree now that they were both waiting for the kettle, but the same didn’t seem to be true for Hanzo. He cleared his throat once, then twice, and even began drumming his fingers on the countertop. McCree began casting about for something to say and relieve his tension, but Hanzo eventually beat him to it.

 

“Do you--” he began tentatively, “--has Genji spoken to you about the new agent?”

 

“About Zenyatta?” McCree shook his head. “He and I haven’ gotten the chance t’talk much at all yet. The reception ain’ too good in that part of Nepal, and the two of us don’ seem to have much time for anythin’ since y’all got here.”

 

Hanzo nodded slightly. “And--you have not met or spoken to Zenyatta?” 

 

McCree raised an eyebrow. “Naw.” 

 

Hanzo nodded again and fell silent, continuing to drum his fingers.

 

The kettle beeped, and Hanzo swept it off its stand with a little more gusto than necessary, swiftly pouring the steaming water into both his cup and McCree’s. 

 

“Much obliged,” said McCree, swirling the water around slightly to get the tea bags properly situated. “Give it five or six minutes or so. I gotta meeting with Winston, so I best be movin’ on. Thanks for sharin’.” Hanzo hummed in reply as he wrapped his long fingers around his tea cup.

 

McCree made his way to the laboratory slowly, trying to give enough time for the chamomile to both steep and cool enough for a few sips while thinking back on the strange conversation.

 

Athena unexpectedly gave him a little more time when she redirected him to the medbay at Winston’s request, but he was nearly crossing the threshold when it finally struck him why Hanzo might be interested in knowing more about the Omnic monk before he arrived. He paused in mid-step. From what little McCree knew about the whole business, Zenyatta was almost single-handedly responsible for Genji’s transformation from the brooding and thoroughly broken half-man McCree had known in Blackwatch to the confident cyborg who could keep up with the likes of Lúcio Correia dos Santos and Hana Song in battle and friendly banter. The Genji he had known had always been far more biting and morbid--now it was almost as though the weight of the last ten years had fallen almost completely away. Now that he thought about it, McCree found himself growing slightly apprehensive; what kind of Omnic was Zenyatta, who was capable of working such a miracle? 

 

And how must Genji’s elder brother feel, who inflicted the damage that necessitated it in the first place?

 

“Ah, there you are, McCree. I thought maybe you’d forgotten and gone to bed!” Winston sounded a little too awake, a sure sign that he, too, had opted for some late night caffeination. The big guy had to learn to slow down a bit.

 

“Naw, I was just grabbin’ some chamomile before I came up.” McCree looked up and down the long room, deliberately ignoring the curtains drawn around the second bed where former Strike Commander Morrison lay, still comatose. “Where’s Angie? I figured the change of scene was t’include her.”

 

“It is,” said Winston, pushing his spectacles back onto his nose. “But not quite yet. You see, Athena thinks she knows what you’re going to propose.”

 

“Oh yeah?” McCree flicked his eyes up at the ceiling, trying to ignore a wave of trepidation in his chest. “And just what was I gonna say, soothsayer?” 

 

Athena’s voice was apologetic. “I believe you were going to offer to test Agent Vaswani’s brain stimulation technology. That is all.”

 

Winston looked at McCree quizzically. “Did you think she was going to say something--embarrassing?”

 

Jesse took off his hat and ran a hand through his hathair. “Well, it’s just--the skill I was gonna propose learnin’. It’s, uh, a little personal.”

 

Winston nodded, still looking a little confused. “Oh. Well, as it is, I would prefer not to know anyway.”

 

McCree blinked. “Oh. You don’ want t’test me?”

 

“Oh, no, no! I would, I just mean I don’t necessarily need to know what it is you’re learning, at least not right away. We’re treating this as a medical study of sorts, a double-blind experiment. Athena will be the only one who knows all the details until the study is complete, but that would mean--”

 

‘’--that when the study’s over, y’all will know what it is, anyway.”

 

Winston nodded. “It will be necessary, in order to properly analyze the data.”

 

McCree sighed. “Well, I was expectin’ t’have t’tell right away, but if it’s all the same, I’ll hang on to it as long as I can.”

 

“Well, unfortunately, Agent Vaswani will also have to know. She’s the only one trained to use the technology properly, you see. We actually started the study soon after Agent Vaswani arrived.” McCree raised his eyebrows at that as Winston continued. “She agreed to abide by the double-blind standards, so she wouldn’t reveal the skill until the study is complete, but she will have to be present at whatever lessons are necessary to acquire it, to make adjustments and make sure the right section of your brain is receiving the current. Everyone’s brain is slightly different, so--”

 

McCree nodded, taking a sip from his mug as he thought it over. Well. He wouldn’t be able to keep hearing music a secret for much longer. Lúcio had nearly caught on already, after all. And if it had to be known, at least it would be in the service of expanding the new Overwatch’s capabilities--he could deal slightly better with being exposed that way.

 

Besides, he really couldn’t ask for a better way to figure out if Satya was his soulmate. He was apparently stuffing his foot into his mouth whenever she was around, and he would need time to figure out exactly why since she was pretty closed off--

 

Well, that wasn’t the best term.  _ Focused _ was a better way to say it, focused to the point of ignoring everything around her. Maybe if she focused on  _ him, _ they could get somewhere.

 

He nodded again, more confidently. Winston beamed at him and motioned to follow him deeper into the medbay, talking excitedly about daily brain scans and twice-weekly blood chemistry tests. Angela would be the one to administer them, though she, too, would be in the dark as to their purpose. Winston had recruited three or four of the other agents for the study already, some to undergo the brain stimulation, the others to act as a baseline to compare and contrast against.

 

McCree smiled and nodded, lost in his own thoughts.

 

He’d managed to cross one person off the list tonight. Now he was going to spend a lot more time with one of the remaining three possibilities-- _ learning music _ with one of the remaining three. Surely it would become clear fairly quickly if Satya was the one or not. And starting tomorrow he’d be working out with Zarya after their training session in the shooting range, so if it turned out to be neither of them--

 

“Oh, hey, Winston, before I forget--when’s that Zenyatta guy arrivin’?”

 

“Hmm?” he asked distractedl. “When’s--um, tomorrow, tomorrow evening. He managed to wrap up everything in Nepal pretty quickly, so Lena’s leaving early in the morning to pick him up. Let me go get Angela and we’ll get the MRI up and running. Be right back.”

 

McCree turned in place, looking back at the entrance as he bit his bottom lip. “Athena?” 

 

“Yes, Agent McCree?”

 

“You mind tellin’ Hanzo that Zenyatta’s comin’ a li’l early? Not from me, but, uh--casual-like?”

 

“I will endeavor to mention it as casually as I can, Agent McCree.”

 

“Thanks, doll.” Winston called his name from the side room that contained the hulking machinery of the MRI machine. McCree could hear Angela tiredly muttering something, and he looked regretfully at his half-empty mug. He should have brought up a second mug for her. 

 

He drained the rest of the chamomile in a few gulps and set the mug on one of the empty beds, still pointedly ignoring the curtained bed, before striding into the side room to begin the scan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blatantly misuses double-blind studies in order to keep SECRETS*
> 
> *sneaks in a weird half-justification for Hana's police uniform skin*
> 
> Thank you for reading! I apologize for the long delay! I've been unemployed since September, and the inactivity and my outlook buried me for a little bit, but I'm getting back in gear. 
> 
> I hope to have the next chapter out a lot quicker than this one! I don't know how many chapters it'll be, though. I thought it would the next would be the last, but, uh--apparently not. But thank you for your patience and for waiting me out, I appreciate it!

**Author's Note:**

> Also, feel like I need to clarify, platonic soulmates are definitely a thing in this AU.
> 
> As always, kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome and greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Came hang out on Tumblr: claroquequiza.tumblr.com


End file.
